THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


J£|LM£K 


THE   COWARD. 


A   NOVEI.   OF 


SOCIETY  AND  THE  FIELD 


IN 


18  63. 


BY   HENRY  MOEFORD. 

AUTHOR    OF    "SHOULDER-STRAPS,"    "THE    DAYS    OF    SHODDY,"  ETC. 
4  »  •  •  t 


PHILADELPniA: 
T.    B.     PETEKSOK     k    BEOTEERS, 

306     CHESTNUT     STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S64,  by 
T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS, 
[n  the  Clerk's  Offlce  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  In  and  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


TO 

THE  PATRIOT  PRINTERS  OF  AMERICA- 

THE    MEN    ■WHO 

HAVE   FURNISHED    MORE   SOLDIERS 

THAN    ANY    OTHER    CLASS 

IN  COMPARISON  WITH    THE  WHOLE   NUMBER  OF  THEIR  CRAFT, 

TO 

THE   DEAD   HEROES   OF   THE   WAR  FOR  THE   UNION 

AND 

THE   LIVING   ARMIES  THAT    YET   BULWARK    ITS   HOPE, — 

THIS 

BLENDING   OF   THE   FACTS  AND   FANCIES 

OF 

W  A  R  -  T  I  M  E, 

IS 

DEDICATED    BY   THEIR    BROTHER-CRAFTSMAN, 

THE  AUTHOR. 

Xeiu  York  Cit>/,  July,  1864. 


603150 


PEEFACE. 


Some  persons,  taking  up  tliis  work  with  expectations 
more  or  less  elevated,  may  possibly  lay  it  down  with 
disappointnient  after  perusal,  because  it  does  not  discuss 
with  sharp  personalities,  as  the  title  may  have  led  them 
to  suppose,,  the  conduct  of  some  of  those  well-known  men 
connected  with  the  Union  Army,  who  have  disgracefully 
faltered  on  the  field.  But  the  truth  is  that  the  Union 
Army  has  mustered  very  few  cowards — so  few,  that  a 
distinguished  artist,  not  long  ago  called  on  to  draw  an 
ideal  head  of  one  of  that  class,  said :  "  Keally  it  is  so  long 
since  I  have  seen  a  coward,  that  I  scarcely  know  how  to 
go  about  it  I"  The  aim  of  the  writer,  eschewing  all 
such  tempting  personalities,  and  quite  as  carefully 
avoiding  all  dry  didactic  discussion  of  the  theme  of 
courage  and  its  opposite, — ^has  principally  been  to  illus- 
trate the  tendency  of  many  men  to  misunderstand  their 
own  characters  in  certain  particulars,  and  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  their  being  misunderstood  by  the  world, 

in  one  direction  or  the  other.     No  apology  is  felt  to  be 

21 


22  PREFACE. 

necessary  for  the  length  at  which  the  scenery  of  the 
White  Mountains,  their  actualities  of  interest  and  possi- 
bilities of  danger,  have  been  introduced  into  the  narra- 
tion ;  nor  is  it  believed  that  the  chain  of  connection  \rith 
the  great  contest  will  be  found  the  weaker  because  the 
glimpses  given  of  it  are  somewhat  more  brief  than  in 
preceding  publications  of  the  same  series.  In  those 
portions  the  writer  has  again  occasion  to  acknowledge 
the  assistance  of  the  same  capable  hand  which  supplied 
much  of  the  war  data  for  both  of  his  previous  volumes. 

New  York  City,  July  Ist^  1864. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
A  June  Morning  of  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Sixty-tliree — Glimpses 
of  West  Philadelphia — The  Days  before  Gettysburg!! — 
The  Two  on  the  Piazza — Margaret  Hayley  and  Elsie 
Brand — An  Embrace  and  a  Diflference — Foreshadowings  of 
Carlton  Brand,  Brother  and  Lover 29 

CHAPTER  II.  . 

The  Coming  of  Carlton  Brand — Almost  a  Paladin  of  Balaclava — 
Brother  and  Sister—A  Spasm  of  Shame — The  Confession 
— The  Coward — How  Margaret  Hayley  heard  Many  Words 
not  intended  for  her— The  Rupture  and  the  Separation...    45 

CHAPTER  III. 
Kitty  Hood  and  her  School -house — DickCompton  going  Soldier- 
ing—A  Lover's  Quarrel,  a  bit  of  Jealousy,  and  a  Threat — ■ 
How  Dick  Compton  met  his  supposed  Rival — An  Encoun- 
ter, Sudden  Death,  and  Kitty  Hood's  terrible  Discovery..     61 

CHAPTER  IV. 
The  Residence  of  the  Brands — Robert  Brand  and  Dr.  Pome- 
roy — Radical  and  Copperhead — A  passage-at-arms  that 
ended  in  a  Quarrel — Elspeth  Graeme  the  Housekeeper — 
The  Shadow  of  Shame— Father  and  Daughter— The  fall- 
ing of  a  parent's  Curse 81 

23 


24  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  V. 
The  Birth  and  Blood  of  the  Brands— Pride  that  came  down  from 
the  Crnsades — Robert  Brand  as  S^)ldier  and  Pension- 
Agent — How  Elsie  raved,  and  how  the  Fitther's  Curse 
seemed  to  be  answered — Dr.  James  Holton,  and  the 
loss  of  a  Corpus  Delicti 99 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Residence  of  Dr.  Pomeroy — Nathan  Bladesden  and  Eleanor 
Hill — A  kneeling  Woman  and  a  rigid  Quaker — The  ruin 
that  a  Letter  had  wrought — A  Parting  that  seemed  eter- 
nal— Carlton  Brand  alive  once  more,  and  a  Glance  at  the 
fatal  Letter 120 

CHAPTER  Vn. 

A  return  to  1856 — Nicholas  Hill,  Iron-merchant — His  Death, 
his  Daughter,  and  his  Friend — How  Dr.  Pomeroj  became 
a  Guardian  and  how  he  Discharged  that  duty — A  ruin  and 
an  awakening — The  market  value  of  Dunderhaven  Stock 
in  1858 137 

CHAPTER  VIIL 
What  followed  the  revelation  of  Betrayal — A  gleam  of  Hope  for 
Eleanor  Hill — A  relative  from  California,  a  projected 
Voyage,  and  a  Disappointment — One  more  Letter-^The 
broken  thread  resumed — Carlton  Brand's  farewell,  and  an 
Elopement 164 

CHAPTER  IX. 

Dr.  Pomeroy's  purposed  Pursuit — A  plain  Quaker  who  used 
very  plain  Language— Almost  a  Fight — How  Mrs.  Burton 
Hayley  consoled  her  Daughter,  and  how  Margaret  revealed 
the  Past — A  Compact — Dr.  Pomeroy's  Canine  Adventure 
— Old  Elspeth  once  more — A  Search  that  found  Nothing.  174 


CONTENTS.  25 

CHAPTER  X. 
Before  and  after  Gettysburg!! — The  Apathy  and  Despair  which 
preceded,  and  the  Jubilation  which  followed — What 
Kitty  Hood  said  after  the  Battle,  and  what  Robert  Brand 
—Brother  and  Sister — A  guest  at  the  Fifth  Avenue 
Hotel — A  fire-room  Visit,  an  Interview,  and  a  Departure 
for  Europe 200 

CHAPTER  XI.' 

Anomalies  of  the  War  for  the  Union— The  Watering-place  rush 
of  1863 — A  White  Mountain  party  disembarking  at  Little- 
ton— Who  filled  the  Concord  coach — The  Vanderlyns — 
Shoddy  on  its  travels — Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame  and  his 
Family— '*H.  T."  and  an  Excitement 219 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Landing  at  the  Profile  House — Halstead  Rowan  and  Gymnastics 
— How  that  person  saw  Clara  Vanderlyn  and  became  a 
Rival  of  "  H.  T."— The  Full  Moon  in  the  Notch— Trodden 
Toes,  a  Name,  a  Voice,  and  a  Rencontre — Margaret  Hay- 
ley  and  Capt.  Hector  Coles — The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain 
by  Moonlight,  and  a  Mystery 237 

CHAPTER  Xni. 
Miss  Clara  Vanderlyn  and  her  Pet  Bears — A  misadventure  and 
a  Friendly  Hand  in  time — The  question  of  Courage — Hal- 
stead  Rowan  and  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  on  Geo- 
graphy—The Dead  Washington,  the  Flume  and  the  Pool 
— With  the  personal  relations  weaving  at  that  juncture.  255 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
A  disaster  to  Master  Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame — Exit  into 
the  bottom  of  the  Pool— Nobody  that  could  swim,  and  Mar- 
garet Hayley  in  Excitement—"  H.  T."  in  his  element,  in 
two  senses — Another  Introduction  and  a  new  Hero — 
Scenes  in  the  Profile  parlor — Rowan  and  Clara  Vanderlyn 
—The  Insult i 279 


26  CONTENTS. 

PACT. 

CHAPTER  XV. 
How  Halstead  Rowan  arranged  tliat  expected  Duel — Ten-pins 
versus  bloodshed — Some  anxiety  about  identity — The 
"H.  T."  initials,  again— A  farewell  to  the  Brooks  Cuu- 
ninghames — An  hour  on  Echo  Lake,  with  a  Rhapsody 
and  a  strangely-interested  Listener 293 

CHAPTER  XVL 
Cloud  and  Storm  at  the  Profile — Sights  and  Sensations  of  a  rainy- 
day  ride  to  the  Crawford — Horace  Townsend  and  Halstead 
Rowan  once  more  together — Unexpected  Arrivals — A 
cavalcade  of  Miserables — An  ascent  of  Mount  Washing- 
ton, with  Equestrianism  and  War-whoops  extraordinary.  323 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
Horace  Townsend  with  a  Lady  in  charge — An  adventure  over 
the  "  Gulf  of  Mexico" — Clara  Vanderlyn  in  deadly  peril 
— A  moment  of  horror — Halstead  Rowan  and  a  display  of 
the  Comanche  riding — Townsend's  eclipse — The  return 
to  the  Crawford — Margaret  Hayley  again,  and  a  Conversa- 
tion overheard 348 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
Horace  Townsend  and  Margaret  Hayley — A  strange  Rencontre 
in  the  Parlor — Another  Rencontre,  equally  strange  but 
less  pleasant — How  Clara  Vanderlyn  faded  away  from  the 
Mountains — And  how  the  Comanche  Rider  "played 
baby"  and  disappeared 370 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
A  strange  Character  at  breakfast—"  The  Rambler,"  and  his  An- 
tecedents— What  Horace  Townsend  heard  about  Fate — 
Going  up  to  Pic-uic  on  Mount  Willard — The  Plateau,  the 
Rope  and  tho  Swing — Spreading  the  Banquet — The  din- 
ner-call and  a  cry  which  answered  it — A  fearful  situation.  392 


CONTENTS.  27 

PAGE. 

CHAPTER  XX. 
Suspense  in  danger,  iu  two  Senses — ^Horace  Townsend  with  a 
Swing-rope — An  invitation  to  Captain  Hector  Coles — A 
fearful  piece  of  Amateur  Gymnastics — Going  down  into 
the  Schute — Success  or  Failure? — The  event,  and  Mar- 
garet Hayley's  madness — Two  unfortunate  Declarations.  410 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
The  hearer  of  a  Disgraced  Name  in  England— A  strange  Quest 
and  a  strange  Unrest — Hurrying  over  to  Ireland — Too  late 
for  the  Packet — The  little  Despatch-steamer — Henry 
Fitzmaurice,  the  journalist — The  peril  of  the  Emerald, 
and  the  end  of  all  Quests  save  one 432 

CHAFER  XXII. 

Pleasanton's  advance  on  Culpeper — Crossing  the  Rappahannock 
— The  fight  and  the  calamity  of  Rawson's  Cross-Roads — 
Taking  of  Culpeper — Pleasanton's  Volunteer  Aide — 
Townsend  versus  Coles — The  meeting  of  Two  who  loved 
each  other — And  the  Little  Ride  they  took  together 452 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Once  more  at  West  Philadelphia— September  and  Change — Last 
glimpses  of  Kitty  Hood  and  Dick  Compton — Robert  Brand 
and  his  invited  Guest — The  news  of  Death — Old  Elspeth 
Graeme  as  a  Seeress — The  dispatch  from  Alexandria — 
The  Quest  of  Brand  and  Margaret  Hayley 478 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
In  the  Hospital  at  Alexandria — The  wounded  Man  and  his  Nurse 
— Who  was  Horace  Townsend  f— A  Mystery  explained — 
How  Eleanor  Hill  went  back  to  Dr.  Pomeroy'a — One  word 
more  of  the  Comanche  Rider— Conclusion 490 


THE    COWARD. 


CHAPTER  L 

A  June  Morning  of  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Sixty-threb 
— Glimpses  op  West  Philadelphia — The  Days  before 
Gettysburg  —  The  Two  on  the  Piazza  —  Margaret 
Hayley  and  Elsie  Brand — An  Embrace  and  a  Differ- 
ence— Foreshadowings  op  Carlton  Brand,  Brother  and 
Lover. 

A  WIDE  piazza,  with  the  columns  made  of  such  light  tracery 
in  scrolled  plank-work  that  they  seemed  to  be  almost  unreal 
and  gave  an  appearance  of  etheriality  to  the  whole  front  of  the 
house.  The  piazza,  flecked  over  with  the  golden  June  sun- 
shine that  stole  down  between  the  branches  of  the  tall  trees 
standing  in  front  and  shading  the  house,  and  that  crept  in 
through  the  network  of  twine  and  climbing  roses  clambering 
almost  up  to  the  roof  from  the  balustrade  below.  The  house 
to  which  the  piazza  adjoined,  large,  built  of  wood  in  that 
half  Flemish  and  half  Elizabethan  style  which  has  of  late 
years  been  made  popular  through  cheap  books  on  cottage 
architecture  and  the  illustrations  in  agricultural  newspapers, — 
two  and  a  half  stories  in  height,  with  a  double  gabled  fron*: 
that  belonged  to  the  one,  elaborate  cornices  and  work  over 
the  piazza  that  belonged  to  the  other,  and  a  turret  in  the 
centre  that  belonged  to  neither.  A  wide,  tall  door  opening 
from  the  piazza,  and  windows  also  opening  upon  it,  sweeping 

29 


30  THK      COWARD. 

down  quite  to  the  floor.  Altogether  a  house  which  approached 
more  nearly  to  the  "  composite"  order  of  architecture  so  much 
affected  by  wealthy  Americans,  than  to  any  one  set  down  in 
the  books  by  a  particular  designation ;  and  yet  shapely  and 
imposing,  and  showing  that  if  the  most  unimpeachable  taste 
had  not  presided  over  the  erection,  yet  wealth  had  been 
lavishly  expended  and  all  the  modern  graces  and  ornaments 
freely  supplied. 

In  front  of  the  house,  and  sweeping  down  to  the  road  that 
ran  within  a  hundred  feet,  a  grassed  lawn  lying  in  the  lovely 
green  of  early  summer,  only  broken  at  irregular  intervals  by 
the  dozen  of  trees  of  larger  and  smaller  sizes,  round  which 
the  earth  had  been  artistically  made  to  swell  so  as  to  do  away 
with  any  appearance  of  newness  and  create  the  impression 
that  the  roundness  had  been  caused  by  the  bursting  of  the 
trees  farther  out  of  the  ground  through  many  years  of  vigorous 
growth.  Beneath  one  of  the  largest  of  the  trees — a  maple, 
with  the  silver  sheen  almost  equally  divided  between  its  bark 
and  its  glossy  leaves,  a  long  wooden  bench  or  settee,  with 
two  or  three  sofa-cushions  thrown  carelessly  upon  it,  as  if  it 
formed  at  times  a  favorite  lounge  for  a  reader  or  a  smoker. 
On  the  piazza  a  triad  of  chairs,  irregularly  placed  and  all 
unoccupied.  One  of  the  two  folding  doors  leading  into  the 
balls  from  the  piazza,  wide  open,  as  became  the  season,  and 
the  other  half  closed  as  if  a  single  puff  of  summer  breeze 
coming  through  the  hall  had  become  exhausted  before  closing 
it  entirely.  One  of  the  windows  opening  from  the  piazza 
into  what  seemed  to  be  the  better  part  of  the  house,  closed 
entirely ;  and  the  other,  with  the  shutters  "  bowed"  or  half 
open,  permitting  a  peep  into  a  large  parlor  or  sitting-room, 
with  rich  carpet  and  handsome  furniture,  but  kept  dusky 
under  the  impression  (more  or  less  reasonable)  that  thereby 
additional  coolness  would  be  secured. 

Near  the  house,  on  both  sides,  other  houses  of  correspond- 
ing pretension  though  displaying  great  variety  in  st3ie  of 
architecture  ;  and  in  front,  across  the  wide  road,  still  others 

m 


THE      COWARD.  SI 

showing  to  the  right  and  left,  and  the  whole  appearance  of 
the  immediate  neighborhood  evidencing  that  it  was  neither 
country  nor  city,  but  a  blending  of  both,  suburban,  and  a 
chosen  spot  for  tho  residences  of  those  who  did  business  in 
the  great  city  and  wished  to  bo  near  it,  and  who  possessed 
means  and  taste  to  make  so  pleasant  a  selection.  Still  farther 
away  in  front,  as  seen  between  the  other  houses  and  shrub- 
bery, and  stretching  off  southward  in  a  long  rolling  sweep, 
rich  agricultural  country,  with  some  of  the  hay-crop  yet  un- 
gathered,  broad  fields  of  grain  receiving  tho  last  ripening 
kiss  of  the  sun  before  yielding  to  the  sickle  or  the  reaping- 
machine,  and  fruit-trees  already  beginning  to  be  golden  with 
the  apples,  pears  and  peaches  glimmering  amid  the  leaves. 
A  quiet,  gentle  scene,  with  evident  wealth  to  gild  it  and  per- 
fect repose  to  lend  it  character ;  and  over  all  the  warm  sun 
of  a  June  morning  resting  like  a  benediction,  and  a  slight 
shadow  of  golden  haze  in  the  air  softening  every  object  in  the 
perspective.  Occasionally  a  pedestrian  figure  moving  slowly 
along  one  of  the  foot-paths  that  bordered  the  wide  road ;  and 
anon  a  farm-wagon  loaded  with  early  produce  and  on  its  way 
to  market,  rumbling  by  with  such  a  sleepy  expression  on  tho 
face  of  the  driver  and  such  lollings  of  the  ears  of  the  full-fed 
and  lazy  horses,  that  the  episode  of  its  passage  rather  added 
to  than  detracted  from  the  slumberous  quiet  of  the  prospect. 

Then  another  passage,  very  different  and  not  at  all  in 
keeping  with  any  of  the  points  that  have  before  been  noted. 
An  officer  in  full  uniform,  with  the  front  of  his  chasseur  cap 
thrown  high  in  defiance  of  the  glare  of  the  sunshine,  spurring 
by  on  a  high-stepping  and  fast-trotting  horse,  eastwai'd  to- 
wards the  city,  with  such  life  and  haste  in  every  movement 
of  himself  and  the  animal  he  bestrode  as  to  momentarily  dash 
the  whole  view  with  unquiet.  Then  the  equestrian  figure 
out  of  sight  and  the  beat  of  his  horse's  hoofs  heard  no  longer; 
and  the  scene  relapsing  into  that  languor  born  of  the  June 
morning  verging  rapidly  towards  noon. 

Then  a  sudden  sound,  still  more  discordant  with  the  drowsy 


82  THE      COWARD. 

peace  of  the  hour  than  the  sight  of  the  spurring  soldier,  and 
still  more  painfully  suggestive  of  war  in  the  laud  of  peace. 
The  quick,  sharp  rattle  of  a  snare-drum,  but  a  little  space  re- 
moved, and  apparently  passing  down  one  of  the  lateral  roads 
in  the  neighborhood,  dyin^  away  with  a  light  tap  into  the 
distance  a  moment  after,  aLd  quiet  coming  back  again  yet 
more  markedly  after  so  incongruous  an  interruption. 

The  place,  West  Philadelphia,  half  a  mile  or  more  beyond 
the  Schuylkill,  not  far  from  the  line  traversed  beyond  the 
bridge  by  the  Market  Street  cars,  and  near  the  intersection 
of  that  branch  of  the  main  artery  known  as  the  Darby  Road, 
— in  the  outer  edge  of  that  beautiful  little  section  with  its 
tall  trees  and  plats  of  natural  green,  out  of  and  into  which 
the  shrieking  monsters  of  the  Pennsylvania  Central  Railroad 
dart  every  hour  in  the  day  with  freight  and  passengers  to 
and  from  the  Great  West.  The  time,  late  in  June,  1863,  a 
few  days  before  Gettysburg,  when  the  long-threatened  inva- 
sion of  the  North  by  the  rebels  had  become  for  the  moment 
an  accomplished  fact,  when  Lee  and  Ewell  had  crossed  the 
Potomac,  swept  on  through  Upper  Maryland,  entered  Penn- 
sylvania, devastated  the  farms  and  carried  away  the  stock  of 
the  farmers  on  the  border,  laid  York  under  a  contribution, 
burned  the  barracks  at  Carlisle,  and  threatened  every  hour  to 
capture  Harrisburgh  and  force  the  passage  of  the  Susque- 
hanna. When  women  and  children,  and  by  far  too  many  of 
the  able-bodied  inhabitants  who  should  have  shown  more 
pride  if  they  indeed  possessed  no  courage,  had  fled  away  from 
the  Seat  of  Government  of  the  Keystone  State,  and  the  pub- 
lic records  were  following  them  to  prevent  their  falling  into 
the  hands  of  an  enemy  known  to  be  destructive  and  revenge- 
ful, and  for  the  moment  believed  to  be  irresistible.  When 
the  rebels  themselves  boasted  that  they  were  about  to  teach 
the  North  all  the  horrors  of  war  that  had  fallen  upon  the 
South  in  the  long  contest, — and  that  in  a  few  days  they  would 
water  their  cavalry-horses  in  the  Delaware,  if  they  did  not 
achieve  the  same  success  at  the  very  banks  of  the  Hudson ; 


THE      COWARD 


ind  wlicn  the  newspapers  of  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  for 
the  moment  completely  discouraged,  p:ave  up  the  line  of  de- 
fence of  the   Susquehanna,  and  gravely  debated  whether  a 
check  could  indeed  be  made  at  the  Delaware,  with  the  loss  of 
the  Quaker  City,  or  whether  the  great  struggle  must  at  last 
be  transferred  to  the  Hudson  hills  of  New  Jersey.     When 
the  Reserves  were  mustering  in  Philadelphia,  and  the   Coal 
Kegiments  forming  in  the  haunts  of  the  sturdy  miners.    When 
the  Pennsylvania  coal-mines  were  to  be  set  on  fire  by  the  in- 
vader, and  left  to  burn  on  until  all  the  fuel  of  the  nation  was 
destroyed,  if  the  "  great  conflagration"  of  the  whole  earth 
did  not  follow  as  a  result.     When  more  placards  calling  for 
the  defence  of  the  State,  were  exhibited  in  the  neighborhood 
of  old  Independence  Hall,  than  had  ever  shown  there,  inviting 
the  idle  to  amusement,  in  the  most  prosperous  seasons  of 
opera,  theatre  and  concert-saloon— drums  beating  at  every 
corner,  brass  bands  blowing  on  every  square,  patriotic  appeals 
and  efforts  to  recruit  on  every  hand,  and  yet  the  people  ap- 
parently  lying   under   bodily    apathy   or   mental   paralysis. 
When  Governor  Seymour,  of  New  York,  and  Governor  Par- 
ker, of  New  Jersey,  waiving  the  political  question  for  the 
moment,  were  calling  out  the  troops  of  those  States  to  the 
defence  of  Pennsylvania ;  and  when  the  militia  of  the  city  of 
New  York  and  the  returned  nine-months  volunteers  of  New 
Jersey  w^ere  showing  themselves  equally  ready  to  respond  to 
the  call.     When  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  seemed  for  the 
moment  to  be  nothing,  even  for  the  defence  of  the  North, 
Hooker  discredited,  no  successor  discovered,  public  confidence 
lost,  the  very  darkest  day  of  the  struggle  at  hand,  and  no  man 
able  or  willing  to  predict  what  might  be  the  extent  of  disaster 
reached  before  the  rolling  back  of  the  tide  of  invasion  from 
the  homes  of  the  loyal  States. 

Such  were  the  place,  the  time,  the  surroundings,  and  the 
atmosphere  (so  to  speak)  of  the  house  of  the  blended  Flemish 
and  Elizabethan  styles  of  architecture,  at  West  Philadelphia, 
of  which,  thus  far,  only  the  outward  aspects  have  been  pre- 


34  THE      COWARD. 

rented.  Yet  there  may  be  an  inexcusable  neglect  of  the  pro- 
prieties, in  presenting  a  house,  its  green  lawn,  shady  trees, 
and  even  the  pleasant  landscape  stretching  away  in  front  of 
it,  before  those  living  figures  which  would  certainly  have  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  an  observer  in  advance  of  any  of  the 
inanimate  beauties  of  art  or  nature. 

Those  figures  were  two  in  number,  both  standing  on  the 
piazza,  very  near  the  trellis  of  climbing  roses,  and  where  the 
flecks  of  sunshine  f^U  through  the  leaves  upon  them  and 
dashed  them  with  little  dots  and  lines  of  moving  light,  as  well 
as  the  floor  upon  which  they  stood.  Both  were  girls — both 
young — both  beautiful ;  at  least  each  possessed  that  combina- 
tion of  features,  fwm  and  manner,  making  her  very  pleasing 
to  the  casual  observer,  and  certain  to  l)e  reckoned  beautiful 
by  some  ont-  admitted  to  a  closer  knowledge  of  the  spirit 
enshrined  within.  They  were  evidently  dear  friends  ;  for 
as  they  stood  near  the  trellis,  and  the  hand  of  the  taller  of 
the  two  plucked  a  half-open  rose  from  one  of  the  clusters, 
and  she  playfully  tried  to  coax  it  to  a  fuller  opening  by 
breathing  caressingly  upon  it  and  separating  its  clinging 
leaves  with  her  dainty  fingers, — the  arm  of  the  other  was 
around  her  waist,  and  both  the  trim  and  graceful  forms  w^ere 
slightly  sw^aying  backward  and  forward  in  that  pleasant,  idle, 
school-girl  motion  which  the  grown  woman  does  not  easily 
forget  until  it  has  given  the  "  fidgets"  to  half  her  elder  ac- 
quaintances. 

The  taller  and  perhaps  by  a  year  the  elder — she  of  the  rose 
—was  the  daughter  of  the  mistress  of  that  pleasant  summer 
paradise,  born  to  w^ealth  and  position,  and  her  birth  registered 
some  two-and-twenty  years  before  in  the  predecessor  of  the 
heavy  family  Bible  with  its  golden  clasps,  which  lay  in  state 
in  the  parlor  so  near  her,  as  Margaret  Hayley.  She  w^as  a 
little  above  the  average  height  of  w^omanhood,  and  might 
have  seemed  too  tall  for  grace  but  for  the  exquisite  rounding 
of  the  lithe  form,  the  matchless  fall  of  a  pair  of  sloping 
shoulders  that  could  not  probably  be  matched  within  a  radius 


TIIECOWARD.  35 

of  fin  hundred  miles,  the  graceful  carriap:e  of  a  neck  that 
would  have  been  long  if  less  elegantly  poised,  the  beauty  in 
shape  and  spring  in  motion  of  the  Arab  foot  under  which  the 
water  would  have  run  as  easily  as  beneath  a  bridge,  and  the 
supple  delicacy  of  the  long  taper  fingers  with  their  rose-tinted 
nails,  which  seemed  perfect  and  high-blooded  enough  to  have 
a  mission  of  playing  among  heart-strings  as  the  fingers  of 
others  might  do  among  the  chords  of  a  harp. 

In  feature  the  young  girl  had  quite  as  many  claims  to  atten- 
tion. The  hair  was  very  dark  and  very  profuse — so  near  to 
black  that  it  needed  the  sunlight  before  the  golden  shadows 
in  the  dark  brown  became  fully  apparent — swept  plainly  down 
on  either  side,  in  the  madonna  fashion,  from  a  brow  that  was 
very  pure,  high  and  clear.  The  face  was  handsomely  moulded, 
rather  long  than  broad,  as  beseemed  the  figure,  rather  pale 
than  ruddy,  though  with  a  dash  of  healthy  color  in  each  cheek 
that  belied  any  momentary  suspicion  of  ill  health  ;  the  nose 
a  little  long  and  somewhflt  decided,  but  very  classic  in  out- 
line and  finely  cut  at  the  nostril ;  the  eyes  dark — so  dark  that 
a  careless  observer  would  have  lost  their  brown  and  called 
them  black,  and  their  expression  a  little  reserved  if  not  sad 
and  even  sometimes  severe  ;  the  mouth  small  and  well-shaped, 
with  the  lips  as  delicately  tinted  as  the  faintest  blush-rose  in 
the  cluster  near  her,  but  a  shade  too  thin  for  the  exhibition 
of  exuberant  passion,  and  showing  a  slight  curl  of  pride  at 
the  corners  of  the  upper;  the  chin  rounded,  full,  and  forming 
a  pleasant  point  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon  as  it  descended  from 
the  face  to  study  the  contour  of  neck  and  shoulders.  The  first 
appreciative  glance  at  her  was  certain  to  be  followed  by  the 
suppressed  exclamation:  "  IIow  very  handsome!"  and  the 
second  by  a  thought  that  the  lips  did  not  syllable  :  "  How  very 
proud  and  queenly  1"  It  might  have  needed  many  more  than 
a  third,  before  the  gazer  could  go  to  the  full  depth  of  a  very 
marked  character,  and  say  how  much  of  that  queenly  bearing 
might  be  ready  to  bend  at  last  to  the  magic  touch  of  the  softer 
passions,  and  how  much  of  that  evident  goodness  and  firmness 


36  THE      COWART>. 

m\a;ht  be  employed  in  oonveying  happiness  to  others  than 
herself.  Among  her  peculiarities,  she  seemed  to  despise  stripes, 
plaids,  sprigs,  spots,  and  the  other  endless  varieties  of  coloi 
in  material ;  and  the  la\Vn  which  swept  that  morning  around 
her  erect  figure  was  of  a  neutral  tint  and  as  devoid  of  spot  as 
were  arms,  ears  and  neck  of  any  ornament  in  jewelry  except 
a  small  cameo  at  the  throat,  a  slight  gold  chain  around  the 
neck  and  descending  to  the  bosom,  and  a  single  cluster  diamond 
sparkling  on  the  forefinger  of  the  right-hand  that  was  dally- 
ing with  the  spirit  hidden  among  the  rose-leaves. 

No  more  telling  contrast  to  the  tall,  majestic  girl  could  well 
have  been  supplied,  than  her  neighbor  and  dear  friend,  Elsie 
Brand  (Elspeth,  baptismally,  for  reasons  that  will  hereafter 
develop  themselves,  but  always  called  Elsie  by  those  admitted 
to  the  least  intimacy.)  She  was  at  least  four  inches  shorter 
than  Miss  Hayley,  round  and  rather  plump,  though  very 
graceful  in  figure,  with  a  chubby  face,  ruddy  cheeks,  piquant 
nose,  merry  blue  eyes,  pouting  red  lips,  full  hair  coming  low 
down  on  the  forehead  and  of  that  pale  gold  which  the  old 
Scotch  poets  immortalized  as  "yellow,"  in  so  many  of  their 
lays  of  the  bardic  era.  Pretty,  beyond  question,  but  more 
good  and  attractive-looking  than  beautiful ;  and  if  a  second 
look  at  Margaret  Hayley  would  have  induced  an  observation 
having  reference  to  her  pride,  a  second  at  Elsie  Brand  was 
certain  to  bring  out  the  thought  if  not  the  speech  :  "  What  a 
charming,  good  little  girl !"  Perhaps  a  third,  with  persons 
not  too  severely  in  training  for  the  great  Olympian  races  of 
morality,  w^as  ver}^  likely  to  create  such  a  sensation  as  one 
experiences  in  gazing  at  a  lusciously  ripe  peach,  having  par- 
ticular reference  to  the  pulpy  red  lips  with  their  fanny  pout 
and  kissable  look,  and  ending  in  a  wish  that  the  crimson  love- 
apples  of  the  modern  Hesperides  were  not  quite  so  zealously 
guarded. 

Elsie  had  not  yet  passed  her  twenty-second  birthday, 
though  she  had  been  "  of  age"  for  a  good  many  twelvemonths, 
in  the  estimation  of  those  who  had  come  near  enough  to  her 


T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D .  37 

to  feel  the  beating  of  her  warm  heart.  Doctor  James  ITolton, 
graduate  of  the  Pennsylvania  Medical  College,  and  la-tely  a 
student  with  one  who  had  been  a  student  with  David  Ilosack, 
held  his  own  peculiar  estimation  of  Elsie  Brand,  and  had 
almost  been  driven  into  rank  atheism  from  the  necessity  of 
both  holding  and  proving  that  the  theory  of  our  springing 
from  one  common  father  and  mother  could  not  possibly  be 
correct,  as  the  clay  of  which  Elsie  was  made  had  been  so  very 
different — so  much  purer,  sweeter  and  better — from  that  em- 
ployed in  the  moulding  of  ordinary  mortals  ! 

Eor  some  minutes  the  two  young  girls  had  been  standing 
in  silence,  Margaret  engaged  with  experiments  on  her  opening 
rose  and  Elsie  with  one  arm  around  her  and  lazily  observing 
the  operation — both  apparently  full  of  that  indolent  enjoyment 
born  of  ease,  content,  and  the  languid  air  of  the  summer 
morning.     Then  the  little  one  spoke  : 

"  Margaret,  do  you  know  of  what  I  have  been  thinking  for 
the  last  two  minutes  ?"  * 

"  Haven't  any  machine  by  which  I  could  pry  into  the  droll 
secrets  of  your  brain,  Elsie,  my  dear  !"  answered  the  taller, 
pleasantly,  but  with  no  smile  upon  her  lips  meanwhile,  and 
apparently  with  all  her  attention  yet  absorbed  in  her  horti- 
cultural experiment. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  ?"  queried  Elsie. 

"  Certainly,  pet,  if  you  like  !"  was  the  reply,  the  tone,  as 
well  as  the  w^ord  of  endearment,  showing  indefinably  that 
Margaret  Hayley  thought  of  herself  as  a  woman  and  yet  of 
her  companion  (of  nearly  the  same  age)  as  little  more  than  a 
child. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  the  little  girl,  "how  much  of  char- 
acter is  sometimes  shown  in  the  action  of  a  moment,  and  how 
very  different  we  are." 

"  Who  thought  your  little  head  was  so  philosophical,  Elsie  ?'^ 
answered  Margaret,  and  this  time  she  for  a  moment  deserted 
her  rose  and  looked  around  with  a  pleasant  smile.  "  Well, 
the  application  of  your  thought  to  yourself  and  to  me  ?" 


38  THE      COWARD. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  little  one.  "  It  was  only  about  the  rose. 
I  should  have  plucked  it,  if  I  plucked  it  at  all,  and  enjoyed  it 
as  it  was.  You  are  trying  to  make  something  else  out  of 
it,  and  yet  show  no  wish  to  destroy  the  flower.  A  cruel 
woman — different  from  either  of  us,  I  hope — would  probably 
be  plucking  off  the  leaves  one  by  one  and  throwing  them 
away,  without  caring  how  much  pain  she  might  he  inflicting 
on  the  life  of  the  flower,  hidden  away  down  somewhere  in 
its  heart." 

"A  very  pretty  idea,  upon  my  word  !"  said  Margaret,  ceas- 
ing to  blow  upon  and  pluck  at  the  leaves,  and  turning  upon 
her  companion  a  countenance  showing  something  like  sur- 
prised admiration.  "And  what  do  you  make  of  my  character, 
Elsie,  as  shown  by  my  handling  of  the  rose  ?" 

"You  must  not  be  angry  with  me,  Margaret,"  answered 
the  young  girl,  a  little  in  the  spirit  of  deprecation,  "  But 
you  see  /  should  have  been  satisfied  with  the  rose  as  it  was, 
and  the  other  ^vould  have  been  cruelly  dissatisfied  with  it  ii^ 
any  shape,  and  you " 

"  Well,  dear  ?     I " 

"You  showed  that  you  were  not  entirely  satisfied  with 
every  thing  as  it  was,  and  that  you  had  a  little  self-will  leading 
you  to  force  things  to  be  as  you  chose,  by  trying  to  make 
that  poor  little  flower  outrun  the  course  of  nature  and  bloom 
before  it  was  quite  ready." 

"  I  think  you  are  right,  Elsie,"  said  Margaret,  nodding  her 
head  in  that  slight  and  repeated  manner  indicative  of  answer- 
ing the  mind  within  quite  as  much  as  any  observation  from 
without.  "  I  am  not  satisfied  with  every  thing  in  the  world, 
Elsie.  I  am  not  cruel,  I  hope  and  believe  ;  but  I  am  sharper, 
harder,  more  requiring  than  you,  and  consequently  not 
formed  for  half  so  much  true  happiness.  I  do  feel  like  forc- 
ing things  to  be  what  I  require,  sometimes,  and  then  I  sup- 
pose I  grow  uuamiable." 

"  Yoa  are  never  any  thing  else  than  a  dear  good  girl, 
with  a  wiser  head  than  my  rattle-pate,  and  ray  own  sweet 


THE      COWARD.  8^ 

sister  that  is  to  be  !"  and  the  arm  of  the  speaker  went  still 
more  closely  around  the  slif^ht  waist  it  encircled.  A  blush 
as  delicately  roseate  as  the  first  flushings  of  dawn  crept  over 
the  more  classic  face  that  bent  above  her  own,  the  lips  above 
came  down  to  meet  those  pontine^  below,  and  the  two  young 
girls  were  kissing  and  embracing  as  if  they  had  been  two 
lovers  of  opposite  sexes  but  very  much  of  one  opinion  as  to 
the  best  office  of  the  lips.  Any  delicately-nerved  old  bachelor 
who  should  have  happened  to  pass  in  front  of  the  house 
at  that  moment  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  scene  just  then 
enacted  on  the  piazza,  would  certainly  have  fainted  away  on 
the  spot,  at  the  idea  of  such  a  waste  of  the  most  delicious 
of  "raw  material."  ,^ 

"  You  may  have  the  rose  for  your  lesson — you  see  I  have 
not  spoiled  it,  after  all,"  said  Margaret,  when  the  kiss  had 
been  given  and  the  rosy  flush  died  away  from  her  own  cheek. 

"  To  give  to  Carlton  ?"  asked  Elsie,  as  she  held  out  her 
band  for  it. 

"  No,  Carlton  must  come  after  his  own  roses  !"  was  the 
reply,  with  the  least  dash  of  pride  in  the  curling  of  the 
upper  lip. 

"And  pluck  them  himself  ?"  asked  saucy  Elsie. 

"  Certainly  1" 

"  No  matter  where  he  finds  them  growing — on  tree,  or  on 
cheek,  or  on  lips  I"  continued  the  young  girl,  with  a  light 
laugh. 

For  an  instant  the  same  flush  rose  again  on  the  cheek  of 
Margaret  Hayley  ;  then  she  forced  it  away,  smiled,  and  said  : 

"Certainly!  why  not?  Carlton  Brand  kisses  me,  some- 
times, and  I  have  more  than  once  kissed  him  back.  What 
is  that  to  you,  sauce-box,  when  we  are  engaged  to  be 
married  ?" 

"  What  is  that  to  me  ?  Every  thing  !  Joy — happiness — 
to  know  that  I  am  going  to  have  so  dear  a  sister !"  cried  the 
little  one,  throwing  both  her  arms,  this  time,  around  the 
pliant  waist  of  Margaret  and  hugging  her  in  a  perfect  trans- 


40  T  H  E       C  U  W  A  li  D  . 

port  of  delight,  which  seemed  quite  shared  in,  though  more 
tranquilly,  by  the  object  of  the  demonstration. 

The  saddest,  cruellest  thing  in  all  the  lyric  drama  is  the 
blast  of  De  Sylva's  horn  on  Ernani's  wedding  morning, 
calling  him  in  one  instant  from  happy  love  to  dishonor  or 
death.  Neither  in  romance  nor  in  nature  should  such  sud- 
den transitions  occur.  Alas,  for  humanity !  they  do  occur  in 
both,  not  occasionally  but  habitually.  The  Duchess  of 
Richmond's  ball — then  Waterloo.  De  Joinville  springs  on 
board  his  flag-ship  to  sail  for  the  attack  on  Vera  Cruz,  in  the 
very  ball  dress  in  which  he  has  been  dancing  the  whole  night 
through  with  the  republican  belles  at  Castle  Garden.  Tlie 
Pall  is  over  every  thing  of  earth  :  how  sadly  and  how  inevit- 
ably it  droops  above  the  Banner !  Xo  scene  upon  earth 
could  have  been  more  exquisitely  peaceful,  and  few  could 
have  been  lovelier,  than  that  which  surrounded  and  compre- 
hended those  two  fair  girls  in  their  embrace  upon  the  piazza. 
AYealth,  youth,  beauty,  good  feeling,  happiness — all  where 
there  ;  and  love  blent  with  friendship,  for  was  not  the  em- 
brace, given  by  Elsie  Brand  and  accepted  by  Margaret  Hay- 
ley,  both  given  and  accepted  quite  as  much  for  her  brother's 
sake  as  her  own  ?  It  was  fitting,  then,  according  to  the  sad 
fitness  of  earth,  that  the  element  of  discord  should  enter  into 
the  peaceful  and  the  beautiful. 

The  officer  spurred  by,  as  we  have  seen  him  do,  gazing  only 
with  our  incorporeal  eyes.  Both  the  young  girls,  just  re- 
leasing each  other  from  their  embrace,  saw  the  dark  cloud  of 
war  sweeping  between  them  and  the  sunlit  grain  fields.  Elsie 
Brand  shuddered  and  drew  back,  as  if  the  incongruity  jarred 
her  nature.  Margaret  Hayley  instantly  lifted  her  proud  neck 
the  higher,  as  if  something  in  Iter  nature  sympathized  with 
every  suggestion  of  the  struggle,  and  as  if  she  was,  indeed, 
insensibly  riding  on  with  the  hurrying  horseman. 

"And  what  does  the  shudder  mean,  little  one  ?"  asked 
Margaret,  who  had  plainly  distinguished  it  at  the  moment  of 
release. 


THE      COWARD.  41 

"  I  hate  war,  and  every  thing  connected  with  it  I"  was  tho 
reply,  the  tone  ahiiost  petulant. 

"And  I  do  not  hate  it,  painful  as  it  may  be  in  many  par- 
ticulars," said  Margaret,  "  Force  and  energy  are  the  noblest 
developments  in  life.  Bravery  is  the  nearest  possible  ap- 
proach to  that  divine  character  which  knows  no  superior  and 
consequently  fears  none." 

"Nearer  to  the  divine  than  loveV  asked  the  little  one. 

Just  for  one  instant,  again,  that  roseate  tint  on  the  cheek 
of  Margaret,  as  she  said  :  "  Nobler,  if  not  nearer  to  tho 
divine  ;  and  sorry  as  I  must  be  to  see  tho  bloodshed  caused 
by  a  civil  war  in  my  native  land,  I  am  almost  glad  that  it  has 
occurred,  sometimes,  as  a  means  of  rousing  the  sluggish  pulses 
of  men  who  would  otherwise  have  stagnated  in  trade  and 
pleasure,  and  proving  that  we  yet  possess  something  of  the 
hero  spirit  of  old." 

"And  /  am  sorry  for  it  all  the  while,  night  and  day,  in  my 
prayers  and  in  my  dreams,"  answered  Elsie  Brand,  with  a 
sigh.  "  Hark  I"  as  the  tap  of  the  drum  came  across  from  the 
lateral  road  beforementioned.  "  There  is  another  reminder 
of  the  curse,  and  one  that  comes  nearer  home.  Do  you  re- 
member, Margaret,  that  I  shall  soon  have  a  brother,  and  you 
a  lover,  separated  from  us  and  in  terrible  danger  ?  They  say 
Harrisburgh  must  be  taken,  unless  a  very  large  body  of  troops 
can  reach  it  at  once.  The  Reserves  will  probably  go  on,  to- 
night, and  Carlton  will  probably  accept  his  old  commission 
again.  I  do  want  him  to  do  his  duty,  Margaret,  if  it  is  his 
duty  ;  but  I  hope  that  he  will  not  think  so — that  he  will  not 
go  away." 

"And  /  hope  that  he  wiYL^"  answered  Margaret,  her  tall 
form  drawn  up  to  its  full  height,  and  a  look  of  stern  pride 
upon  her  face  that  could  not  very  well  be  mistaken. 

"  To  go  into  danger — perhaps  to  death  ?"  asked  Elsie, 
looking  sadly  at  the  proud  Sibylline  face. 

"  To  a  thousand  deaths,  if  necessary,  rather  than  towards 
the  least  suspicion  of  a  want  of  true  manhood !" 


4.2  THE      COWARD. 

"All,  you  do  not  know  the  trembling  fear  of  a  sister's  love  !" 
said  Elsie,  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  know  a  love  fifty  times  deeper !"  said  ^Marpraret,  the 
pride  still  on  her  face,  and  yet  that  ever-returniiifr  flush 
coming  up  again  to  say  that  if  love  had  not  conquered  pride 
it  had  at  least  divided  the  dominion.  "  Listen,  Elsie  Brand, 
to  some  words  that  you  may  as  well  understand  now  as  ever. 
There  is  no  one  near  to  hear  us,  and  so  it  is  almost  like 
speaking  before  heaven  alone.  I  love  your  brother,  deeply, 
devotedly,  with  all  the  power  of  my  nature — so  devotedly 
that  if  that  love  should  be  wrenched  aw*ay  from  my  heart  by 
any  circumstance,  I  know  that  my  life  would  thenceforth  be 
but  one  long,  wretched  mockery  of  existence.  Happy 
natures  like  yours,  Elsie,  do  not  know  the  absolute  agony 
that  lies  in  such  love.  And  yet  I  could  give  up  that  love, 
and  my  life  with  it,  and  would  do  so,  before  I  would  live,  love, 
and  yet  despise  /" 

"  Despise  ? — are  you  speaking  of  Carlton — of  my  brother  ?'* 
asked  the  young  girl,  apparently  a  little  lost  in  the  myste- 
rious energy  of  her  companion's  words. 

"  I  said  that  I  could  not  despise,"  Margaret  Hayley  went 
on.  "  I  must  not,  or  w^e  have  no  future.  Do  you  know  that 
I  should  have  reverenced  your  brother  more,  even  if  I  did  not 
love  him  better,  if  he  had  not  refused  the  commission  in  the 
army  tendered  him  at  the  commencement  of  the  war  ?  I 
might  have  wept,  perhaps  mourned — but  I  should  have  idol- 
ized. Now,  I  only  love  a  mortal  like  myself,  where  I  might 
have  been  worshipping  a  hero  1" 

"  Or  sobbing  over  a  grave  !"  said  Elsie,  with  a  sigh  which 
told  how  easily  she  might  have  been  brought  to  illustrate  the 
word  she  used. 

"  What  then  !"  was  the  quick  reply  of  Margaret.  "  The 
glory  would  have  been  his — the  loss  and  grief  would  have 
been  mine,  and  I  could  have  borne  them.  But  he  did  not 
choose  to  enter  the  struggle,  prominent  as  he  had  once 
been  in  military  movements.     He  had  the  excuse  of  business 


THE      COWARD.  43 

and  occupation,  and  I  have  tried  to  believe  that  he  needed  no 
other." 

"  Needed  ? — what  do  you  mean,  Margaret  ?"  cried  Elsie 
Brand  in  a  tone  and  with  a  movement  of  starting  back  which 
evidenced  both  pain  and  alarm. 

"  It  is  a  painful  thing,  but  I  must  say  it,  to  you,  as  I  do  not 
know  that  I  could  say  it  to  him,"  pursued  Margaret.  "  I 
mean,  that  I  have  tried  to  believe  that  there  was  no  flaw  in 
my  idol — that  Carlton  Brand,  who  held  every  pulse  of  my 
woman's  heart  responsive  to  his  touch — did  not  lack  the  one 
manly  virtue  oi  courage  1^'' 

"And  would  you  dare  to  believe  my  brother — the  man  you 
have  pretended  to  love — a  cowardV^  There  was  something 
vexed  and  sharp,  almost  angry,  in  Elsie's  tone,  now,  that  did 
not  promise  another  immediate  embrace  like  that  of  a  few 
moments  previous.  Margaret  Hayley  saw  the  expression  of 
her  face,  but  neither  blenched  before  it  nor  seemed  to  feel  any 
anger  at  the  manifestation. 

"  Elsie  Brand,"  she  said,  her  words  slow,  measured,  and 
with  a  cadence  that  was  somehow  inexpressibly  pained  and 
mournful,  "  I  am  no  school-girl,  and  I  am  speaking  words 
that  I  mean.  I  know  your  brother  to  be  patriotic,  I  know 
him  to  be  in  high  health,  athletic,  vigorous  and  determined ; 
and  have  sometimes  believed  that  if  he  had  possessed  that 
one  requisite,  animal  courage,  he  would  long  ago  have  been 
fighting  the  foes  of  the  republic.  Grieve  as  I  may  to  part 
with  him,  I  am  glad  you  believe  that  he  is  going  with  the 
Reserves.  He  had  his  choice,  before,  and  I  let  my  own 
heart  instead  of  my  reason  have  sway,  and  did  not  question 
its  propriety.  But  were  he  to  hang  back  now,  when  his 
native  State  is  invaded  and  every  arm  necessary  to  drive 
back  the  rebels  from  Pennsylvania  soil,  I  should  know  that 
he  was  a  coward  I" 

"  I  don't  like  you,  Margaret  Hayley,  when  your  face  looks 
so  and  you  talk  in  that  manner  !"  said  the  little  girl.  ''  But 
I  will  not  quarrel  with  you.     Carlton   is   going  with   the 


44r  THE      COWARD. 

Reserves,  and  some  day  when  he  is  killed  or  you  hear  how 
he  has  shamed  all  the  rest  with  his  bravery,  you  will  be  sorry 
for  the  words  you  have  just  spoken  !"  Just  then  the  little 
yellow-haired  girl  was  the  Sibyl,  and  her  prophecy  went  upon 
record  with  the  wild  words  of  Margaret,  to  be  afterwards  re- 
membered— how  sadly  1 

"  No — do  not  be  angry  with  me,  Elsie,"  said  Margaret, 
taking  the  hand  that  had  been  temporarily  released.  "  You 
have  no  cause.  I  have  been  speaking  against  my  own  heart 
all  the  while,  much  more  than  against  the  man  whom  I  truly 
love.  I  know  him  to  be  noble  and  true,  and  I  will  believe 
him  brave.  Are  you  satisfied  ?  Kiss  me  1"  and  the  proud, 
statuesque  face  once  more  lost  its  gravity,  to  bring  back  all 
the  joyousness  into  the  rounder  and  merrier  one  from  which 
it  had  temporarily  departed. 

The  light  summer  jockey-hat  of  Elsie  lay  just  within  the 
door,  on  a  chair.  With  a  quick  glance  at  the  watch  hidden 
under  her  waist-riband,  she  stepped  within  the  door,  threw 
on  her  hat,  and  was  about  to  terminate  her  somewhat  pro- 
longed morning-call,  when  Margaret  took  it  off  again, 
dropped  it  into  one  of  the  vacant  chairs,  and  said  : 

"  No — do  not  go  away.  You  have  nothing  to  do  at  home 
— mother  has  gone  down  to  the  city  for  the  day,  you  know, 
and  I  shall  be  lonely.  We  shall  have  some  lunch — you  may 
call  it  dinner  if  it  will  taste  any  better, — very  soon.  Stay 
till  the  afternoon — cannot  you  do  so,  just  as  well  as  not  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so — no,  I  must  see  Carlton — yes,  though, 
Carlton  will  be  quite  as  likely  to  come  here  first  as  to  go 
home,  if  he  has  arranged  to  go  away — yes,  I  will  stay  if  you 
wish  it  so  much  !"  rapidly  answered  the  little  one. 

"  That  is  a  good  girl,"  said  Margaret  Hayley,  just  as  she 
might  have  patted  a  school  hobby-de-hoy  on  the  head. 
"  Now  run  into  the  parlor  and  get  the  very  nicest  book  you 
can  find,  draw  the  easy-chair  out  of  the  hall,  and  enjoy  yourself 
the  best  you  can  for  just  twenty  minutes,  while  I  go  down 


THECOWARD.  45 

to  the  kitchen,  in  ma's  place,  and  see  what  progress  our  new 
Dutch  cook  has  been  making." 

She  disappeared  with  the  words,  and  her  injunctions  were 
acted  upon  almost  as  rapidly.  In  half  a  minute  Elsie  had 
the  arm-chair  out  of  the  hall,  and  an  illustrated  work  ofl"  one 
of  the  tables  in  the  parlor,  and  was  prepared  for  her  short 
period  of  indolent  enjoyment. 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  Coming  of  Carlton  Brand — Almost  a  Paladin  op 
Balaklava — Brother  and  Sister — A  Spasm  of  Shame 
The  Confession — The  Coward — How  Margaret  Hay- 
ley   HEARD   Many  Words  not   intended  for  her — The 

E.UPTURE    and    the    SEPARATION. 

iNOT  long  was  the  young  girl,  left  at  the  close  of  the  last 
chapter  bodily  ensconced  in  an  easy-chair  on  the  broad 
piazza,  and  mentally  absorbed  in  the  attractions  of  one  of  the 
choicest  books  in  Margaret  Hayley's  collection,  allowed  to  pur- 
sue her  reading  undisturbed.  Not  two  minutes  had  elapsed 
when  a  horseman,  riding  a  chestnut  horse  of  handsome  ap- 
pearance and  fine  action,  came  rapidly  up  from  the  direction 
of  the  city,  dismounted  with  the  same  practised  grace  that  he 
had  shown  when  in  the  saddle,  threw  the  rein  of  his  horse 
over  one  of  the  posts  standing  near  the  gate,  opened  that 
gate  and  came  up  the  walk,  without  attracting  the  attention 
of  the  young  lady  on  the  piazza,  or  that  of  any  other  occupant 
of  the  house  he  was  approaching. 

Lifting  from  his  brow,  as  he  approached  the  house,  to 
wipe  away  the  slight  moisture  which  had  gathered  there 
even  in  riding,  the  broad-brimmed  and  low-crowned  hat  of 
light  gray,  which  so  well  accorded  with  his  loose  but  well- 


46  T  H  E      C  0  W  A  R  D . 

fitting:  suit  of  the  same  color,  he  gave  an  opportunity  for 
studying  the  whole  man,  which  could  not  well  have  been 
attained  under  other  circumstances ;  and  both  narrator  and 
reader  may  be  excused  for  stopping  him  momentarily  in  that 
position,  while  due  examination  is  made  of  his  most  striking 
outward  peculiarities. 

He  was  at  least  five  feet  eleven  inches  in  height,  with  a 
figure  rather  slight  than  stout,  but  singularly  erect,  sinewy, 
and  elastic,  every  movement  giving  evidence  that  the  body 
could  not  well  be  set  to  a  task  beyond  its  power  of  endurance. 
The  foot  was  not  very  small,  but  well-shaped,  and  the  un- 
gloved hand  which  held  his  riding-whip  was  almost  faultless 
in  shape  and  color.  The  hat  removed,  a  brow  rather  broad 
than  high  was  seen,  with  a  head  w^ell  balanced  in  all  the 
intellectual  and  moral  requirements,  densely  covered  with 
light,  curling  hair,  of  that  peculiar  shade  which  the  poetical 
designate  as  "  blonde"  and  the  practical  as  "sandy."  The 
complexion,  though  the  cheeks  were  a  little  browned  by  the 
summer  sun,  was  very  fair,  and  that  of  the  brow  as  stainless 
as  any  petted  girl's  could  be.  The  features  were  nearly 
faultless  in  the  Greek  severity  of  their  outline,  the  nose 
straight  and  well  cut,  the  mouth  small  but  with  full  curved 
lips,  the  eyes  of  hazel,  widely  set.  The  lower  part  of  his 
face  was  effectually  concealed  by  a  luxuriant  full  beard  and 
moustache,  a  few  shades  darker  than  his  hair,  and  showing  a 
propensity  to  curl  on  slight  provocation.  He  was  a  decidedly 
handsome  man  of  twenty-eight  to  thirty,  erect,  gentlemanly, 
dignified,  and  with  something  in  his  general  appearance 
irresistibly  reminding  the  spectator  of  the  traditional  appear- 
ance of  those  blonde  Englishmen  of  good  birth,  who  seem 
made  to  dawdle  life  away  without  exhibiting  one  of  the 
sterner  qualities  of  human  nature,  until  deadly  danger 
shows  them  to  have  that  cool  recklessness  of  life  which 
charged  tw^o  hundred  years  ago  with  Prince  Rupert  and 
ten  years  ago  with  poor  Nolan.  Yet  this  was  the  idea 
more  likely  to  be  formed  of  him  and  his  capabilities,   by 


T  n  E     C  O  W  A  R  D  .  47 

strangers  and  those  who  lacked  opportunity  to  examine  his 
face  and  manner  closely,  than  by  those  intimately  acquainted 
with  both  ;  for  there  was  an  occasional  nervousness  in  the 
movement  of  the  hands,  and  even  of  the  whole  figure,  that  to 
a  close  observer  would  have  belied  the  first-assumed  self- 
confidence  ;  and  a  something  drooping,  tremulous,  and  un- 
decided in  the  lower  lip  at  the  corners,  was  so  w^ell  matched 
by  a  sad  and  even  troubled  expression  that  often  rested  like 
a  cloud  over  the  eyes,  that  the  whole  man  seemed  to  be  made 
into  another  self  by  them. 

Such  was  Carlton  Brand,  the  brother  of  Elsie,  about  whom 
the  tongues  of  the  two  young  girls  had  wagged  so  unre- 
servedly but  a  few  minutes  before.  Such  was  his  appear- 
ance, to  the  outward  eye,  as,  hat  still  in  hand,  he  approached 
the  piazza.  Elsie  was  sufficiently  absorbed  in  her  book,  not 
to  feel  his  presence  ;  and  it  was  not  until  he  was  close  upon 
her  that  the  young  girl  saw  him,  flung  down  the  costly  illus- 
trated volume  in  her  chair  with  less  care  than  might  have 
pleased  the  less  impulsive  owaer,  sprang  to  the  step  and 
seized  both  the  occupied  hands  of  the  new^-comer,  with  a 
warmth  that  showed  how  cordial  was  the  affection  between 
brother  and  sister,  so  widely  different  in  appearance  and 
indication  of  character. 

"How  did  you  come  here,  pet?"  the  brother  asked,  as 
soon  as  his  mouth  was  free  from  the  kiss  his  sister  tendered. 

"  Oh,  ran  across  the  fields  half  an  hour  ago,  and  intended 
to  be  back  home  by  this  time,  only  that  Margaret  was  alone 
and  wished  me  to  stay ;  and  besides " 

"  Well— besides  what  ?" 

"  Besides,  I  almost  knew  that  you  would  stop  here  before 
you  went  home,  and  I  should  see  more  of  you  before  you 
went  away,  by  remaining." 

Could  the  young  girl  but  have  seen  the  quick  spasm  of 
agony  that  just  then  passed  over  the  face  of  Carlton  Brand — 
the  agitation  and  trembling  which  seized  upon  lip  and  hands — . 
she  might  have  been  wiser  the  next  moment,  but  she  certainly 


4*8  THE      COWARD. 

would  not  have  been  happier.  Just  for  that  one  moment 
there  seemed  to  be  lack-lustre  vacancy  in  the  eyes,  total  want 
of  self-assertion  in  face  and  figure,  and  the  handsome,  noblo- 
looking  man  actually  seemed  to  have  collapsed,  bowed,  and 
sunk  within  himself,  so  that  he  was  more  an  object  of  pity 
than  of  envy.  But  the  sister's  eyes  were  fortunately  turned 
away  at  that  instant,  and  she  saw  nothing.  When  she  looked 
at  him  aj^ain,  the  spasm,  whatever  it  might  have  been,  was 
gone,  and  she  only  saw  his  usual  self  He  did  not  reply  to 
her  last  guggestion,  but  asked,  after  an  instant  of  hesitation  : 

"  Where  is  Margaret  ?" 

"  Gone  down  into  the  kitchen  for  a  few  moments,  to  look 
after  a  new  Dutch  cook,  but  she  will  soon  return.  And  so 
you  are  really  going  away,  brother,  and  I  shall  be  so  lone- 
some 1"  and  the  hand  of  the  sister  sought  that  of  the  dearly- 
loved  brother  again,  as  if  every  moment  lost  without  some 
touch  of  one  who  was  so  soon  to  leave  her,  was  lost  indeed. 

Even  to  this  the  brother  gave  no  reply,  but  made  a  remark 
with  reference  to  the  rapid  ripening  of  the  grain  in  the 
wheat-fields  that  skirted  the  road  beyond.  A  duller  wit 
than  that  of  Elsie  Brand  might  have  become  aware  that  he 
was  avoiding  an  unpleasant  subject;  and  the  young  girl 
recognized  the  fact,  but  gave  it  an  entirely  erroneous  expla- 
nation, believing  that  he  must  have  heard  some  peculiarly 
threatening  news  from  the  scene  of  the  invasion,  making  the 
peril  of  the  troops  about  to  leave  more  deadly  than  it  would 
have  been  under  ordinary  circumstances,  and  that  he  dreaded 
to  enter  upon  the  theme  at  all,  for  fear  of  alarming  her.  As 
a  consequence,  her  next  words  were  a  disclaimer  of  her  own 
fears. 

"  Oh,  Carlton,  you  need  not  be  afraid  to  speak"  of  it  to  me. 
Much  as  I  have  dreaded  your  going  away,  I  know,  now, 
that  it  is  your  duty,  when  your  own  State  is  invaded ;  and  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  bear  the  separation,  and  even  to 
think  of  you,  my  own  dear  brother,  as  in  danger,  without 
saying  one  word  to  hold  you  back." 


THE      CO  W  A  R  D.  ^19 

"  Have  you  V  That  spasm  was  again  upon  his  face,  and 
the  words  were  hoarse  ;  but  again  the  03-0  and  the  ear  of  the 
sister  missed  the  recognition  of  any  thing  unusual. 

"Yes;  and  so  has  Margaret." 

"Has  she?-'  The  spasm  had  not  gone  off  his  fiice,  and 
the  second  question  was  asked  even  more  hoarsely  than  the 
first.  For  some  reason  that  the  young  girl  could  not  under- 
stand, he  turned  away  from  her,  walked  down  to  the  end  of 
the  piazza,  and  stood  looking  oif.  What  he  was  suffering  at 
that  moment,  with  three  or  four  of  the  most  powerful  passions 
known  to  humanity  tearing  at  his  heart-strings  at  onee,  none 
may  know  who  have  not  passed  through  the  same  terrible 
ordeal  which  he  was  then  enduring.  There  were  only  the 
fays  who  ma3''have  been  playing  among  the  green  grass,  and 
the  dryads  yet  lingering  among  the  whispering  leaves  of  the 
maples,  looking  in  at  the  end  of  the  piazza  upon  his  face  : 
had  they  been  human  eyes,  what  of  wrestling  and  struggle 
might  they  not  have  seen  !  When  he  turned  to  walk  back 
towards  the  spot  where  his  sister  was  standing  in  surprise 
not  unmingled  with  alarm,  his  face  was  again  calm,  but  it 
would  have  shown,  to  the  observant  eye,  a  calmness  like  that 
of  despair.     His  words,  too,  were  forced  when  they  came  : 

"You  and  Margaret  both,  Elsie^  love  me  so  well,  I  know, 
that  you  would  give  up  almost  any  thing  to  please  me  ;  but 
I  do  not  intend  to  task  either  of  3'ou  too  far.  I  am  not  going 
— that  is,  business  detains  me  so  that  I  cannot — I  am  not 
going  to  Harrisburgh." 

"  Business  !"  Elsie  Brand  had  never  before,  in  her  whole 
young  life,  uttered  a  word  so  hardly  or  in  a  tone  so  nearly 
approaching  to  a  sneer,  as  she  spoke  the  single  word  at  that 
moment.  Were  the  words  of  Margaret  Hayley  ringing  in  her 
ear,  and  did  she  find  some  terrible  confirmation,  now,  of  what 
had  before  been  so  impossible  to  believe?  "Business! — 
what  business,  Carlton,  can  be  sufficient  to  keep  you  at  home 
when  the}^  seem  to  need  you  so  much  ?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  it  ?"  and  his  tones  were  harsh 


50  THE      COWARD. 

and  almost  menacing.  "  Do  we  ask  you  women  to  decide 
what  we  shall  do,  where  we  shall  go,  and  where  we  shall 
stay  ?" 

"  Oh,  Carlton  I"  and  the  cry  seemed  to  come  from  the  very 
heart  of  the  young  girl.  It  was  perhaps  the  first  harsh  word 
that  had  ever  fallen  on  her  ear,  aimed  at  her  from  the  lips  of 
the  brother  she  so  adored.  God  only  knew  the  agony  under 
wliich  that  harsh  word  had  been  wrung  out,  as  only  he  could 
know  the  agony  it  might  cause  I  The  cry  instantly  melted 
the  heart  to  which  it  appealed.  Carlton  Brand  toc>k  the 
hand  of  his  sister  in  his  own,  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  said  : 

"Forgive  me,  Elsie,  if  I  spoke  as  I  should  never  speak  to 
you!  But  you  do  not  know,  sometimes,  what  moves  men  to 
harshness  which  they  afterwards  bitterly  repent." 

"But  you  are  not  going  with  the  regiment  ?"  again  she 
asked. 

"Xo  ! — I  have  told  you  I  was  not,  Elsie  !"  and  the  tone 
came  very  near  to  being  a  harsh  one,  ouce  more. 

"I  am  sorry — very  sorry,  Carlton!" 

"  Sorry  ?"  and  the  often-recurring  spasm  which  again 
passed  over  his  features,  could  not  have  been  unobserved  by 
the  young  girl,  for  her  own  face  seemed  to  reflect  it.  "  Sorry  ? 
Are  you  indeed  sorry  that  I  am  not  going  into — that  I  am 
not  going  to  be  absent  from  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Carlton  !  heaven  knows  I  am  not !"  said  Elsie, 
and  the  merry  blue  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  "  But  I  think 
you  ought  to  go ;  and  you  do  not  know,  Carlton,  how  much 
may  hang  upon  it.  Do  you  love  Margaret — really  and  truly 
love  her  ?"  z 

"  Love  her  ?  as  my  own  soul !"  answered  Carlton  Brand. 
He  did  not  say  "  as  his  own  life^\^  "  Why  do  you  ask,  after 
all  that  you  have  known  of  our  attachment  and  our  engage- 
ment ?" 

"  Because,  Carlton" — and  the  young  girl,  weeping  the 
while  under  an  impulse  of  feeling  that  she  could  scared}^  her- 
self understand,  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  drew  down  his 


THECOWARD.  51 

head  towards  her—"  because  I  believe  that  if  you  do  not  go 
with  the  Reserves,  Margaret  will  think  that  you  do  not  do  so 

becau.<e oh,  I  cannot  speak  the  word  !" 

"Because  what?  Speak  it  out!"  and  he  seemed  to  be 
nerving  himself  to  meet  some  shock  that  was  likely  to  need 
all  his  energies. 

"Because" in  a  voice  very  low  and  broken — "because 

you  are  afraid  to  go — because  you  are  a  coward  /" 

"Has  she  said  as  much  ?"  and  the  eyes  of  the  speaker, 
very  sad,  troubled,  and  almost  wild,  seemed  still  to  have 
power  to  read  the  very  soul  of  the  young  girl  before  him. 
Elsie  could  not  speak  at  first,  but  she  nodded  twice,  and 
never  death-bell  of  a  condemned  criminal  rung  out  more 
clearly  or  more  frightfully  on  the  startled  air,  tolling  the 
knell  of  a  last  hope,  than  the  whisper  that  came  at  last  from 
her  lips : 
"Yes!" 

"  Then  God  help  me  !"  came  from  those  of  the  strong  man, 
in  such  a  manifestation  of  agony  as  was  painful  to  behold, 
while  his  hands  for  one  moment  clasped  themselves  together 
as  if  he  would  wring  them  in  womanish  weakness,  then 
went  up  to  his  face  and  spread  themselves  as  if  they  would 
shut  it  away  forever  from  human  sight.  "God  help  me  ! — 
and  you,  Elsie,  despise  me  if  you  will,  but,  oh,  help  me  to  keep 
it  from  her.  I  dare  not  go  !.  I  am  a  coward !  If  I  should 
go  into  battle  I  should  disgrace  myself  there  forever,  by 
running  away  at  the  first  fire,  and  that  would  break  our  poor 
old  father's  heart !" 

"  Carlton  !  Carlton  !  my  poor  brother  !"  and  the  hands  of 
the  young  girl  closed  around  one  of  her  brother's,  with  so 
warm  a  pressure  as  proved  that  she  did  not  think  of  any 
shame,  disgrace  or  fault  in  the  connection,  but  only  as  the 
announcement  of  some  great  misfortune. 

"  Yes,  Elsie,  you  have  wrung  from  me  the  confession  that 
I  hoped  never  to  be  obliged  to  make  to  any  one  but  my  God. 
I  have  made  it  to  Him,  oh,  how  many  times,  and  I  almost 


bZ  TH  E      C  O  W  A  R  D. 

feel  that  lie  has  forgiven  me,  as  my  fellow-men  will  never  do. 
I  have  been  a  coward,  I  suppose,  from  mv  very  cradle,  and 
heaven  only  knowd  how  I  have  managed  to  conceal  the 
terrible  truth  from  you,  all  this  while  I  The  very  sight  of 
blood  sickens  me,  even  when  it  is  only  the  blood  of  beeves  in 
a  slaughter-house.  One  spirt  from  the  arm  of  a  man  when 
he  is  being  bled  sets  every  nerve  to  trembling,  and  sometimes 
sends  me  fainting  to  the  floor.  One  moment  among  the 
horrible  sights  of  battle — the  groans,  and  shrieks,  and  crash- 
ing bullets  and  spouting  blood  of  carnage — would  drive  me 
mad  or  send  me  flying  away  with  the  curses  of  my  whole 
race  ringing  in  my  ears." 

**  Oh,  Carlton  I  my  poor  brother !"  repeated  once  more, 
and  in  the  same  tone  of  heart-broken  sympathy,  was  all  that 
Elsie  Brand  could  answer  to  this  humiliation  of  the  one  to 
whom,  perhaps,  next  to  God,  she  had  ever  looked  up  as  to 
His  noblest  human  manifestation  of  greatness  in  creative 
power. 

"  Do  you  see  what  a  poor  miserable  wretch  I  am  ?"  he 
went  on,  apparently  forgetful  that  any  one  besides  his  sister 
might  be  within  hearing,  and  she  so  absorbed  in  the  grief 
and  shame  of  the  revelation  that  she  possessed  no  more  fore- 
thought. "  Think  of  me  as  an  officer  in  my  regiment,  and 
know  with  what  a  reddened  face  I  must  have  walked  the 
streets  when  we  paraded,  conscious  that  if  suddenly  called  to 
duty — even  the  quelling  of  a  mob  at  the  street-corner — I 
should  be  obliged  to  disgrace  myself  at  once  and  forever  ! 
Think  what  I  have  suffered  since  the  war  broke  out ! — com- 
mission after  commission  offered  me — loving  my  country  as 
I  believe  man  never  loved  it  before — and  yet  not  daring  to 
strike  one  blow  in  its  behalf.  Obliged  to  make  slight  excuses 
when  others  have  inquired  why  I  did  not  go  to  the  war — 
obliged  to  wear  a  double  face,  a  mask,  everywhere  and  at 
all  times — dreading  detection  every  day,  and  in  that  detection 
perhaps  the  loss  of  my  proud  father's  life  and  of  the  lovo 
that  has  made  the  only  hope  of  my  own — cursing  the  omen 


THECOWARD.  53 

that  unwittingly  gave  me  the  brand  of  the  coward  in  my  very 
name — racked  and  tortured  thus,  and  yet  obliged  to  hold  an 
honorable  place  among  my  fellow-men— it  has  been  too  hard, 
Elsie,  too  hard  !  And  now  to  lose  all  1  If  she  has  learned 
to  suspect  me — T  know  her  brave  heart  and  her  proud  nature 
— I  shall  lose  her,  the  richest,  noblest  thing  on  earth,  half 
grasped,  to  be  mourned  for  as  never  man  yet  mourned  for 
woman  1  Do  help  me,  Elsie  I  Help  me  to  conceal  my 
shame — to  deceive  her,  yes — God  help  me  ! — to  deceive  her 
before  whom  my  very  soul  should  be  laid  bare — so  that  she 
will  not  know  me  for  the  miserable  wretch  and  coward  that 
I  am  I" 

And  all  this  while  his  face  was  wrought  and  contorted,  at 
short  intervals,  by  those  fearful  spasms  of  shame  and  mental 
suffering ;  and  ever  and  anon  his  hands  locked  together  and 
seemed  to  wring  themselves  even  beyond  his  own  volition. 
How  different  he  looked,  at  that  moment,  from  the  handsome, 
noble  man,  in  the  full  pride  of  mature  adolescence,  who  had 
stepped  upon  that  piazza  but  a  few  moments  before  I 

"  I  would  do  any  thing-  in  the  world  to  help  you,  Carlton  ; 
but  what  can  I  do  ?"  faltered  the  young  girl,  who  saw  no 
light  beyond  the  thick,  black  cloud  of  shame  and  ruin  slowly 
settling  down  on  the  head  of  her  beloved  brother. 

"  Help  me  to  conceal  the  truth" — he  went  on — "  to  enforce 
any  excuse  for  not  leaving  the  city  at  this  moment  !  I  know 
it  is  base  and  contemptible,  but  it  is  for  a  good  purpose, 
Elsie — to  save  a  heart  that  is  already  distracted,  and  a  life 
that  must  be  wrecked  without  it.  We  may  never  be  placed 
in  the  same  circumstances  again — the  war  may  soon  be  ended 
— if  she  can  only  be  kept  from  knowing  this,  I  may  never  be 
placed  in  the  same  peril  again,  and  my  whole  life  shall  be  one 
long  proof  that  I  am  not  otherwise  unworthy  of  the  woman 
I  love  so  madly." 

"  It  does  not  need,  Carlton  Brand  !"  sounded  a  voice  from 
within — a  voice  that  both  recognized  but  too  well ;  and  out 
of  the  hall  came  the  figure  of  Margaret  Play  ley. 


54  T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D . 

Her  words  and  her  manner  alike  proved  that  she  had  heard 
all,  or  at  least  enouj^h ;  for  there  was  an  expression  of 
withering  contempt  flashing  out  of  her  dark  eye  and  curling 
her  proud  lip,  not  easily  to  be  borne  by  any  person  towardfj 
whom  they  were  directed.  There  did  not  seem,  for  the 
moment,  to  be  any  thing  like  pity  in  her  composition  ;  and 
if  there  had  been  love  within  her  heart,  it  appeared  to  have 
been  so  crushed  out  by  one  stunning  blow  that  it  could  never 
bloom  again  any  more  than  the  wild  flower  ground  beneath 
the  heel  of  the  wayfarer.  Her  head  was  proud,  erect, 
haughty,  disdainful ;  and  one  who  had  leisure  to  examine  her 
closely  would  have  seen  that  the  nostril  was  opening  and 
shutting  convulsively,  as  if  overwhelming  passion  was  only 
suppressed  by  the  physical  act  of  holding  the  breath.  Elsie 
Brand  was  too  much  dizzied  and  confused  to  be  quite  aware 
what  had  happened  or  what  was  about  to  happen.  She 
merely  uttered  a  cry  of  agitation  and  fright,  and  shrunk  back 
alike  from  her  brother  and  the  woman  who  had  come  to  be 
his  judge.  Carlton  Brand  saw  more,  with  the  quick  eye  of 
the  lawyer  and  the  sharpened  perception  of  the  lover.  He 
realized  that  Margaret  Hayley  had  heard  his  agonized  and 
unmanly  confession — that  anger  and  scorn  had  driven  away 
from  her  face  the  love  which  had  so  often  and  so  pleasantly 
beamed  upon  him — that  his  doom  was  sealed. 

With  the  knowledge  came  back  to  him  that  manliness  in 
demeanor  of  which  he  had  been  so  sorely  in  need  a  moment 
before.  In  the  presence  only  of  his  sister,  and  when  pleading 
with  her  to  assist  in  rescuing  him  from  the  pit  of  grief  and 
shame  into  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  sinking,  he  had  been 
humble,  abject,  even  cowering.  Now,  and  in  the  presence 
of  the  woman  for  whose  softened  opinion  he  would  have 
given  the  world  and  almost  bartered  his  hopes  of  heaven, — 
he  stood  erect,  and  if  the  spasm  of  pain  did  not  entirely  pass 
away  from  his  face,  at  least  it  changed  in  its  character  so  that 
he  was  a  man  once  more. 

"  I  understand  vou,  Miss  Havlev."  were  the  first  words  he 


THE      COWARD.  ^^ 


spoke.     "  You  have  heard  son.e  words  not  intended  for  your 
ear      Tou  have  been  lisleniiu/."  . 

v.  If  vou  merely  inean  that  1  have  heard  what  jas  not  in- 
tended "for  my  ear,  you  certainly  speak  the  truth,  Mr.  Brand, 
.he  replied,  catehing  the  formality  of  his  address  at  once. 
.■But  if  you  mean  that  I  have   listened   meanly,  or  even 
voluntarilv,  to  words  intended  to  be  confidential  you  wrong 
yourself,  ^quallv  with  me,  in  saying  so.     You  have  spoken 
so  loudlv  that  not  only  I  but  even  the  servants  in  the  house 
could  not  well  avoid  hearing  you;  and  there  is  not  much 
.  listening'  in  hearing  words  almost  brawled  on  a  piazza. 

Il.r  words  were  very  bitter-they  beseemed  the  l,ps  from 
,.hich  they  flowed.  A  man  who  loved  her  less  or,  who  bad 
fewer  of  the  natural  impulses  of  the  gentleman  than  Carlton 
Brand,  might  only  have  thought  of  the  taunt  conveyed  and 
forgotien  tts  justice.  He  did  not  do  so,  but  bowed  at  once 
with  an  air  of  respectful  humility,  and  said  : 

"  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons  for  my  hasty  speech      I  was 
:nad  when  I  made  it.     Certainly  you  have  heard  nothing  bu 
what  you  had  a  right  to  hear."     And  then  he  stood  erect  but 

^"'poor  little  Elsie  Brand  could  contain  herself  no  longer. 
How  she  loved  her  brother,  only  the  angels  knew.  How 
easily  we  pardon,  in  those  of  our  kindred,  what  would  be 
MeUble  di^<'race  in  the  characters  of  others,  all  close 
'otrvi  of  liumanity  know  too  well.  Little  Elsie  Bran, 
was  only  acting  the  part  of  nature  in  espousing  the  cause  of 
her  own  blood,  and  saying,  before  time  enough  had  elapsed 
for  any  additional  words  between  the  two  principals : 

"Margaret  Hayley,  I  say  that  you  are  too  hard  with 
Carlton  I  If  vou  had  ever  loved  him,  as  you  pretended,  you 
would  not  be'so !     There,  you  have  not  asked  my  opinion, 

but  you  have  it !"  ,  .    j      ■»„+ 

The  words,  though  kindly  meant,  were  ill-ndvised.     >ot 

even  her  brother,  who  had  but  a  few  moments  before  been 


5(5  THE      COWARD. 

imploring  her  assistance,  thanked  her  for  what  she  had  then 
spoken.     At  least  he  silenced  her  for  the  time  with — ■ 

"  You  can  do  no  good  now  by  speaking,  Elsie.  It  is  too 
late.  Miss  Ilayley  has  something  more  to  say  to  me,  no 
doubt,  after  what  she  has  accidently  heard  ;  and  I  am  pre- 
pared to  hear  it."  He  stood  almost  coolly,  then,  the  bared 
head  bent  only  a  very  little,  and  the  face  almost  as  calm  as 
it  was  inexpressibly  mournful.  So  might  a  convicted  criminal 
stand,  feeling  himself  innocent  of  wrong  in  intent,  beaten 
down  under  a  combination  of  circumstances  too  strong  to 
combat,  awaiting  the  words  of  his  sentence,  and  yet  deter- 
mined that  there  should  be  something  more  of  dignity  in  his 
reception  of  the  last  blow  than  there  had  ever  been  in  any 
previous  action  of  his  life. 

Twice  Margaret  Hayley  essayed  to  speak,  and  twice  she 
failed  in  the  effort.  If  she  bad  been  calmly  indignant  the 
moment  before,  Nature  had  already  begun  to  take  its  revenge, 
and  she  was  the  woman  again.  Her  proud  head  was  bent 
a  little  lower,  and  there  was  a  dewy  moisture  in  the  dark 
eyes,  that  could  never  be  so  well  dried  up  as  in  being  kissed 
away.  Who  knows  that  the  proud  woman  was  not  really 
relenting — letting  the  old  love  come  back  in  one  overwhelm- 
ing tide  and  sweep  away  all  the  barriers  erected  by  indigna- 
tion and  contempt  ?  Who  knows  how  much  of  change 
might  possibly  have  been  wrought,  had  the  next  words  of 
Carlton  Brand  been  such  as  indicated  his  belief  that  the  chain 
between  them  was  not  yet  severed  utterl}"?  Who  knows, 
indeed  ? — for  his  words  were  very  different. 

"  Miss  Hayley,  I  have  waited  for  you  to  speak  what  I  feel 
that  you  have  to  say.  You  have  heard  words  that  no 
betrothed  woman,  I  suppose,  can  hear  from  her  promised 
husband  and  yet  retain  that  respect  for  him  which  should  be 
the  very  foundation  of  the  marriage-bond." 

"  I  have."  The  words  came  from  her  lips  in  tones  much 
lower  than  those  in  which  she  had  before  spoken,  and  she  did 
not  even  look  at  him  as  she  answered. 


THECOWARD.  57 

"  You  have  heard  me  declare  myself— I  know  by  the  face 
you  wore  but  a  moment  since,  that  you  have  heard  all  this — 
what  you  hold  to  be  the  lowest  and  most  contemptible  thing 
on  God's  footstool — a  coward.''^ 

"  1  have.  I  would  rather  have  died  on  the  spot  than  heard 
those  words  from  the  lips  of  the  man  I  have— have  loved  1" 
The  words  still  low,  and  some  hesitation  in  those  which  con- 
cluded the  sentence.  One  would  almost  have  believed,  at 
that  moment,  that  of  the  two  the  culprit  was  the  down-look- 
ing and  low-voiced  woman,  instead  of  the  man  whose  god-like 
presence  so  contradicted  the  dastardly  vice  he  was  confessing. 
"  I  have  no  defence  to  offer,"  the  speaker  went  on.  "  If 
you  have  heard  all  that  I  believe,  no  further  explanation  is 
necessary.  You  know  the  worst ;  and  as  a  proud  woman, 
with  honor  unspotted  and  beyond  suspicion,  you  have  a  right 
to  pass  what  sentence  you  choose  upon  my — my  shame,  my 
crime,  if  you  will  !" 

Perfect  silence  for  an  instant,  then  a  broken  sob  from  Elsie, 
whose  face  was  streaming  with  tears  denied  to  both  the 
others,  and  who  was  leaning  her  forehead  against  the  sharp 
corner  of  one  of  the  columns  of  the  piazza,  apparently  that 
the  slight  physical  pain  thus  inflicted  might  do  something  to 
still  the  mental  agony  that  raged  within.  Then  Margaret 
Hayley,  as  if  she  had  passed  through  a  long  struggle  but 
conquered  at  last  with  a  triumph  slaying  her  own  soul,  raised 
her  head,  drew  in  a  hard  breath,  shook  back  one  of  the  tresses 
of  her  dark  hair  which  had  fallen  over  her  brow,  and  spoke  : 

"Do  you  know,  Carlton  Brand— I  cannot  call  you  Mr. 
Brand  again,  for  that  address  is  mockery  after  what  we  have 
been  to  each  other — do  you  know  what  that  sentence  must 
be,  in  justice  to  myself  and  to  you  ?" 

"  I  can  guess  it,  Margaret  Hayley,"  was  the  answer,  the 
prefix  changed  again  in  imitation  of  her,  just  as  she  a 
moment  before  had  changed  it  in  imitating  him.  The  inci- 
dent was  a  mere  nothing,  and  yet  suggestive  as  showing  how 
closely  the  two  seemed  to  study  each  other,  and  how  much 


58  THE      COWARD. 

of  real  sympathy  there  must  after   all  have  been  between 
them.     "  I  can  guess  it,  and  I  will  try  to  bear  it." 

"You  can  guess  it — you  do  guess  it — separation!"  said 
Margaret  in  a  low  voice  that  she  could  not  quite  render  firm. 

"I  was  not  mistaken — I  supposed  as  much,"  he  answered. 
"  You  are  a  proud  woman,  Margaret,  and  you  could  not 
marry  a  man  for  whom  you  failed  to  entertain  respect — " 

"  I  am  a  proud  woman,  but  a  woman  still,"  said  Margaret. 
"  You  whom  I  have  loved  so  truly,  can  best  guess  the  depth 
of  my  woman's  nature.  But  I  cannot  and  will  not  marry  a 
man  to  whom  I  cannot  look  up  and  say  :  *  This  man  has  the 
courage  and  the  will  to  protect  me  in  every  peril  !' " 

"  Have  you  ever  had  reason  to  believe  that  I  could  not 
and  would  not  protect  you,  if  need  came,  against  all  the 
world  ?"  and  his  eyes  momentarily  flashed,  at  that  thought, 
with  a  light  which  should  not  have  shone  in  the  orbs  of  a 
coward. 

"  Words  are  idle,  Carlton  Brand  !"  said  Margaret.  "  There 
is  no  protection  so  sacredly  due  as  that  of  a  strong  man  to 
his  country.  You  know  it,  and  I  know  it  as  well.  The 
man  who  knows  his  duty  to  his  country  and  dares  not  do  it, 
through  sheer  bodily  fear,  could  not  be  trusted  in  any  relar 
tion.  His  wife  would  not  dare  trust  him,  if  she  knew  it ;  and 
you  have  opened  my  eyes  but  too  painfully.  And  so,  in 
mercy  to  both,  all  must  be  over  between  us — " 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  that,  Margaret,  sister  !"  broke  out  Elsie, 
in  a  more  faltering  voice  than  she  had  ever  used  in  pleading 
for  herself  since  the  earliest  day  of  childhood.  Margaret  did 
not  heed  her,  if  she  heard,  but  went  on  from  the  point  at 
which  she  had  been  interrupted  : 

"All  is  over  between  us,  Carlton  Brand,  at  once  and  for- 
ever, unless " 

"  Unless? — what  is  the  possibility  you  would  yet  hold  out 
to  me  ?"  and  the  speaker  showed  more  agitation,  at  that  one 
renewed  glimpse  of  hope,  than  he  had  done  when  battling 
against  utter  despair. 


THECOWARD.  59 

*'  Unless  you  will  yet  obey  the  summons  that  has  called 
vou  with  every  other  true  son  of  Pennsylvania  to  the  field, 
and  prove  to  me  that  you  did  not  know  yourself  or  that  you 
were  endeavoring  to  play  a  cruel  part  in  deceiving  your  sis- 
ter and  me  I" 

The  face  of  Carlton  Brand  had  been  comparatively  calm, 
ever  since  the  coming  out  of  Margaret.  Suffer  as  he  might, 
most  of  the  suffering  had  been  hidden.  Now  that  face  as- 
sumed an  aspect  that  was  really  fearful  to  behold.  The 
veins  on  his  forehead  swelled  as  if  they  would  burst,  his  lip 
set  hard,  his  eyes  glared  as  if  one  touch  might  have  made 
him  a  maniac,  and  his  hands  worked  convulsively.  All  the 
symptoms  of  extreme  terror  and  of  a  repugnance  which  no 
effort  could  overcome,  were  imminent  in  every  glance  and 
motion  ;  and  something  of  those  phenomena  was  exhibited 
which  we  may  suppose  the  Highland  seer  of  old  time  to  have 
shown,  when  he  was  carried  beyond  himself  by  the  invisible 
powers,  and  saw  battle,  defeat  and  horrible  death  for  himself 
or  others,  slowly  unrolling  before  his  spiritual  sight.  Elsie 
Brand  shuddered  and  drew  back  to  the  column  which  had 
before  sheltered  her.  Margaret  Hayley  still  stood  erect, 
though  she  was  evidently  laboring  under  suppressed  excite- 
ment, and  none  could  say  what  the  end  of  this  scene  might 
be.  It  was  quite  a  moment  before  Carlton  Brand  could  com- 
mand himself  sufficiently  to  speak,  and  then  he  said  in  a  low, 
broken  voice  : 

"  Ko — I  cannot.  I  cannot  kill  my  poor  gray-haired  old 
father  with  the  spectacle  of  the  flight  and  disgrace  of  his 
only  son." 

"And  you  have  decided  well,"  said  Margaret.  "It  is  a 
bitter  thing  to  say,  but  I  am  glad  that  you  have  marked  out 
my  course  as  you  have  done.  Think — oh  heaven  !"  and  she 
seemed  indeed  to  be  for  the  moment  addressing  the  powers 
above  instead  of  those  regnant  upon  the  earth — "think  how 
near  I  came  to  being  this  man's  wife  and  the  possible 
mother  of  his  children,  each  one  marked  with  the  curse  set 


60  THECOWARD. 

upon  them  bv  their  father  !"  No  human  ear  could  have 
heard  the  whisper  which  followed  :  "  Enough  of  disgraces  de- 
scending from  parents — oh,  heaven  !" 

"  You  are  right,  Margaret  Uayley — right  1"  spoke  Carlton 
Brand,  his  voice  lower,  more  hoarse  and  broken  than  it  had 
been  at  any  part  of  the  long  interview.  "  You  have  re- 
minded me  well  of  your  duty  and  mine.  The  day  may  come 
when  you  will  be  sorry  for  every  word  thtrt  has  fallen  from 
your  lips  ;  but  it  may  not.  To-day  you  are  doing  right — let 
the  future  take  care  of  itself     Good-bye  !" 

He  took  the  long,  slender  white  fingers  in  his,  and  looked  upon 
them  a  minute,  the  tears  at  last  gathering  in  his  eyes.  Then, 
when  through  the  thickening  drops  he  could  scarcely  see  them 
longer,  he  raised  them  to  his  lips,  pressed  a  kiss  upon  them, 
dropped  the  hand  and  strode  off  the  piazza  and  away,  never 
once  looking  back  as  he  passed  down  the  path  towards  the 
gate. 

Margaret  Hayley  had  been  overstraining  both  heart  and 
brain,  and  the  penalty  asserted  itself  very  soon.  Her  dis- 
carded lover  was  scarcely  half  way  down  the  path  when  the 
revulsion  came,  and  pride  for  the  moment  broke  dowm  before 
her  terrible  sorrow.  The  proud  neck  bent,  she  stretched  out 
her  arms  after  the  retreating  figure,  the  single  word,  "  Carl- 
ton !"  came  half  whispered  and  half  groaned  through  her  lips, 
her  eyes  closed,  and  she  sunk  fainting  into  the  arms  of  Elsie. 

Carlton  Brand  did  not  hear  the  call.  A  moment,  and  still 
wn'thout  another  glance  at  the  house  where  he  was  leaving 
behind  the  happiness  of  a  life,  he  had  unloosed  the  splen- 
did chestnut  pawing  at  the  gate,  swung  himself  into  the 
saddle  and  ridden  away  w^estward.  He  reeled  a  little  in  his 
seat  as  he  rode,  as  a  drunken  man  might  have  done — that 
was  all  the  apparent  difference  between  the  man  with  a  hope 
who  had  arrived  half  an  hour  before  and  the  man  who  now 
departed  without  one. 


THECOWARD.  61 


CITArTEU  III. 


Kitty  Hood  and  her  School- house — Dick  Compton  going 
Soldiering — A  Lovers'  Quarrel,  a  bit  of  Jealousy,  and 
A  Threat — IIow  Dick  Compton  met  his  supposed  Rival 
— An  Encounter,  Sudden  Death,  and  Kitty  Hood's 
terrible  Discovery. 

"  I  DO  not  care,  Dick  Compton  !  You  are  a  mean,  good- 
for-uotbing  fellow,  and  the  sooner  you  go  away  and  get 
killed,  the  better.  I  hope  I  may  never  set  eyes  on  you 
again,  as  long  as  I  live." 

A  pleasant  st3^1e  of  address,  especially  from  a  pretty 
woman ;  and  yet  one  to  which  a  good  many  persons  have 
submitted,  first  and  last,  from  little  people  whom  they  could 
physically  have  slain  with  a  single  stroke  and  mentally  dis- 
comfited with  very  little  more  trouble  ! 

The  time  of  this  objurgation  was  the  same  morning  on 
which  the  events  took  place  which  have  already  been  re- 
corded as  occurring  at  the  residence  of  Margaret  Hayley,  and 
at  a  very  little  earlier  hour  than  that  which  witnessed  the 
departure  of  Carlton  Brand  from  the  place  of  his  signal  dis- 
comfiture. The  place  was  in  front  of  a  little  country-school- 
house  standing  half  a  mile  from  the  Darby  road,  northwest- 
ward, and  perhaps  two  miles  westward  from  the  Hayleys. 
The  interlocutors  were  Richard  Compton  (already  introduced 
as  "  Dick"  by  the  flippant  tongue  of  his  companion),  a  young 
and  well-to-do  farmer  of  the  neighborhood,  about  a  quarter 
of  a  century  old,  perhaps  some  five  feet  nine  in  height,  thick- 
set, strong-limbed,  with  a  round,  good-humored  face  guiltless 
of  beard  but  browned  a  good  deal  by  exposure  in  the  field, 
generally  smiling  and  content,  but  with  a  spice  of  the  bull- 
dog in  his  nature  which  made  him  sullen  occasionally  and  led 
him  always  to  be  very  fond  of  his  own  peculiar  way  ; — and 
Kitty  Hood,  teacher  of  the  district  school  of  that  particular 


62  THECOWARD. 

section  of  the  Keystone  State,  a  short,  round,  rosy  little  lass, 
with  merry  brown  eyes  that  only  occasionally  had  a  sterner 
kind  of  mischief  in  them,  dark  brown  waved  hair,  aud  just 
the  last  general  appearance  in  the  world  that  a  phrenologist 
would  have  selected  for  the  necessarily  calm  and  dignified 
life  of  an  instructress  of  callow  youth. 

The  old  weatiier-beaten  school-house,  erected  perhaps  fifty 
3''cars  before  but  not  yet  swept  away  in  the  prevailing  rage  for 
staring  new  white  baby-houses  for  the  instruction  of  children 
in  the  country,  stood  at  the  base  of  a  slight  wooded  hill,  facing 
southward  ;  a  fine  old  sycamore  near  the  door  holding  the 
whole  house  and  all  its  contents  in  flecked  light  and  shade ; 
a  group  of  locusts  not  far  awa}^  to  the  left  showing  a  motley 
jumble  of  benches  beneath,  that  were  evidently  the  favorite 
lounging-place  of  the  children  during  play -hours  ;  and  a  little 
pond  of  a  hundred  or  two  feet  in  diameter;  with  one  edge  half 
covered  with  the  leaves  of  the  intrusive  pond-lilies,  and  the 
other  bordered  by  a  juvenile  wharf  of  stones,  old  boards  and 
bark,  supplying  the  youngsters  with  a  place  in  which  to 
paddle,  sail  boats  and  get  very  wet  without  any  danger  of 
being  drowned,  in  summer,  and  with  a  reliable  though  limited 
skating-ground  in  winter.  Its  convenience  for  winter  sports 
could  only  be  imagined,  at  that  season  of  the  year  when  the 
wild-roses  were  clambering  up  the  dingy  boards  of  the  in- 
closure,  to  the  windows  of  the  school-room  ;  but  its  inevitable 
use  as  a  part  of  the  great "  highway  of  nations"  was  too  plainly 
shown  by  a  circumstance  which,  alas  ! — at  the  same  moment 
illustrated  the  vicisss^udes  of  commerce  and  the  necessity  for 
the  existence  of  insurance  companies.  A  stately  vessel  of 
the  mercantile  guild,  twelve  inches  in  length  but  with  the 
dignity  of  three  masts  and  each  holding  spitted  on  it  as  a  sail 
nearly  an  entire  half-sheet  of  foolscap  paper,  had  evidently 
left  the  little  wharf  during  the  morning  play-hour,  freighted 
for  the  Spice  Islands  lying  up  among  the  pond-lilies,  but 
suffered  the  fate  of  many  sea-going  ships,  fallen  under  the 
power  of  foul  winds  or  adverse  currents,  and  stranded  on  a 


T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D .  63 

reef  of  mud  some  paces  from  the  shore,  from  which  the  in- 
g-eniiity  of  her  factors  had  not  3'et  been  able  to  release  her, 
and  where  she  hiy  "  keeled  over"  in  a  manner  equally  con- 
taminating to  her  white  paper  sails  and  unpleasant  to  her 
possible  passengers.  No  doubt  anxious  eyes  were  meanwhile 
glancing  out  of  the  windows,  between  two  leaves  of  the 
geography  which  detailed  the  perils  of  navigation  in  the 
East  Indian  archipelago,  to  see  whether  piratical  canoes  or 
pirogues  did  not  put  off  to  burn  that  noble  vessel  and  mas- 
sacre her  crew,  before  noon  should  give  time  for  any  further 
efforts  towards  her  release.  Here  the  course  of  this  narra- 
tion painfully  but  necessarily  loses  sight  of  the  good  three- 
master  "  Snorter,  of  Philadelphia,"  as  many  another  of  the 
fairy  barks  launched  by  inexperienced  youth  disappears  from 
view  and  is  known  no  more  forever ;  but  let  us  hope  that  this 
particular  venture  was  floated  off  at  some  early  "  springtide" 
of  play-spell,  and  that  she  ''came  safely  to  her  desired 
haven  !" 

Within  the  little  one-story  school-house,  with  its  unpainted 
desks  and  benches  of  pine,  dark  with  age  and  scarred  by  notch 
and  inscription  from  the  penknives  of  half  a  century  of  school- 
boys,— there  was  going  on,  at  that  moment,  precisely  what 
may  be  seen  in  any  school  from  Windsor  to  Washoe,  when 
the  ruling  power  is  temporarily  absent.  Wilkie  painted  not 
only  from  life,  but  from  the  inevitable  in  life,  when  he  drew 
the  "Village  School  in  an  Uproar;"  for  mobs  have  been  put 
down  by  the  military  power  and  even  savage  communities 
have  been  made  quiet  by  the  exercise  of  powder-and-ball ; 
but  no  force  has  yet  been  discovered  that  could  check  (and 
who  would  wish  it  to  be  entirely  checked,  after  all  ?)  the 
riotous  mischief  of  the  school-room  when  the  terrible  eye  is 
removed  I  Five  minutes  before,  Mistress  Hood  in  the  chair 
of  authority,  fifty  heads  of  all  hues  and  all  textures  had  been 
more  or  less  closely  bent  down  over  book  and  slate,  and  a 
low  monotonous  hum,  something  like  the  sleepy  drone  from  a 
score  of  bee-hives,  had  been  heard  floating  out  on  the  summer 


64  T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  Lt . 

air.  isow,  Mistress  Kitty  Hood  liad  been  just  two  ruinutes 
absent  from  the  school-room,  and  a  nice  little  Pandemonium 
was  already  established,  that  it  would  need  some  birchings 
and  many  strong  words  to  annihilate.  Half  a  dozen  of  the 
big  boys  had  gathered  into  a  knot,  not  far  from  the  door,  and 
were  snickering  aloud  and  pointing  knowingly  towards  the 
point  o^  interest  without,  with  running  comments  on  "  Miss 
Hood's  beau  1"  Three  little  girls,  forgetting  their  sex,  were 
playing  at  leap-frog  between  and  over  two  of  the  benches,  to 
the  disarrangement  of  their  short  skirts  and  the  eventual 
tumbling  over  of  one  of  the  benches  with  a  loud  clatter. 
Two  or  three  of  the  larger  girls  were  in  close  conversation, 
about  what  there  is  no  means  of  knowing  except  that  one  of 
them  remarked  that  "it  was  real  indecent  and  she  meant  to 
tell  her  ma !"  One  boy,  who  was  the  possessor  of  a  mag- 
nificently national  handkerchief,  had  stuck  it  on  the  end  of 
the  long  ruler  from  the  mistress'  desk,  and  was  going  through 
a  dress  parade  of  one,  with  a  feeble  whistle  as  music.  A 
young  brute  was  taking  the  opportunity  of  pinching  the  ear 
of  a  smaller  boy,  and  making  him  whimper,  as  a  punishment 
for  some  previous  alleged  injury.  Another  had  made  a  pair 
of  spectacles  out  of  blue  paper,  and  stuck  them  on  the  nose  of 
a  little  girl  on  one  of  the  near  benches,  who  blushed  so  rosily 
that  her  white  dress,  blue  spectacles  and  red  face  quite  sup- 
plied the  national  colors.  And  still  another,  with  cheeks 
marvellously  distended,  was  trying  whether  he  could,  in  the 
short  space  of  time  during  which  the  mistress  might  be  absent, 
manage  to  choke  down  three  early  harvest-apples  without 
dying  by  strangulation  or  requiring  any  assistance  from  bis 
companions. 

Such  were  the  surroundings  of  the  country  school-house, 
and  such  was  the  aspect  of  Kitty  Hood's  little  school-room 
during  her  temporary  absence.  And  now  what  was  the 
necessity  which  had  for  the  moment  withdrawn  her  from  her 
charge,  and  what  vras  the  provocation  under  which  the  words 
were  uttered,  given  at  the  commencement  of  this  chapter  ? 


T  11  E      O  O  W  A  R  D.  0.) 

Perhaps  the  perRonal  apponrance  of  Dick  Oompton  may  pro 
ar.  least  a  little  distance  towards  the  explanation.  As  ho 
Btood  kickinp:  his  foot  ap^ninst  the  lower  step  of  the  school- 
x.onse  door  and  listenino:  to  the  words  of  petnlance  which  his 
mistress  so  plentifully  bestowed  npon  him,  it  was  to  be  seen 
that  while  his  coat  was  a  sack  of  (n-dinarvlii^ht  summer-stuff, 
lookinp^  civil  and  homelike  enonprh,  his  pants  and  cap  were 
both  ^vay  and  military,  accordins:  to  the  pattern  of  the 
Reserves.  Under  his  arm  he  held  a  bundle  which  mip^ht 
very  easily  have  contained  the  coat  necessary  to  make  the 
uniform  complete;  and  such  was,  indeed,  the  composition  of 
the  parcel.  Dick  Compton,  never  before  connected  with  any 
military  organization,  had  the  night  before  determined  to 
abandon  home  and  the  girl  he  loved,  leave  other  hands  to 
gather  in  the  fast  ripening  harvest,  intrust  his  favorite  pair 
of  farm-horses  to  the  care  of  his  younger  brother  and  the 
liands  on  the  farm,  and  make  at  least  a  small  part  of  the 
response  to  the  urgent  call  of  Governor  Curtin.  He  had 
been  down  to  the  rendezvous,  to  sign  the  roll  of  membership 
in  the  Res.erves,  and  to  get  his  uniform,  that  morning.  He 
was  to  leave  with  the  regiment  for  Harrisburgh,  that  evening, 
and  it  was  on  his  way  home  to  the  pleasant  farm-house  lying 
a  couple  of  miles  northward  and  across  the  main  road  leading 
up  from  Market  street,  that  he  had  called  at  the  school-hous*^ 
to  make  his  adieux  to  Kitty  Hood,  wiiich  seemed  to  be  so 
ungraciously  received. 

They  were  so  indeed.  Kitty,  from  the  moment  when  Comp- 
ton tapped  at  the  door  and  called  her  out  amid  the  surprised 
glances  and  then  the  tittering  of  the  school-children — from 
the  moment  when  she  had  observed  his  military  cap  and 
pants — had  understood  the  whole  story  and  put  herself  not 
only  on  her  dignity  but  her  unamiability.  She  had  not  smiled 
even  once  upon  him,  or  allowed  him  to  take  her  hand,  though 
he  reached  out  for  it;  and  though  the  jolly  round  face  of  the 
school-mistress  was  not  by  any  means  the  pattern  of  coun- 
tenance that  could  be  made  stupendously  awful  by  the  greatest 
4 


6Q  T  H  E      «J  O  W  A  U  D . 

amount  of  efl'ort,  yet  Kitty  had  done  her  best  to  be  royal — 
not  to  say  imperial.  To  his  explanations  she  had  been  worse 
than  the  traditional  "deaf" — insultingly  interrupting;  and 
to  his  asseverations  that  the  country  needed  the  heart  and 
the  arm  of  every  true  man,  she  had  answered  with  that  uu- 
romantic  but  unanswerable  word  :  "  fiddlestick  T'  She  had 
tried  wheedling,  coaxing,  scolding,  every  thing  but  crying, 
in  the  effort  to  make  him  forego  his  resolution  and  take  off 
his  name  (supposing  that  he  could  do  such  a  thing)  from  the 
roll  of  the  Reserves.  She  bad  no  doubt,  and  expressed  her- 
self to  that  effect,  that  if  he  went  to  Harrisburgh  he  would 
come  back  in  a  coffin,  all  cut  up  into  little  bits  by  the  savages, 
or  not  come  back  at  all  and  have  his  skull  and  bones  used  for 
a  drinking  cup  and  a  few  necklaces  by  the  women  of  Seces- 
sia,  or  come  back  in  a  condition  worse  than  either,  with  both 
legs  cut  off  close  up  to  the  body,  one  arm  gone  and  his  skull 
broken  in,  and  a  pretty  thing  for  a  respectable  young  woman 
to  marry  ! 

It  was  very  well,  for  the  sake  of  his  adherence  to  his  patri- 
otic purpose,  that  Dick  Compton  had  in  him  that  dash  of 
bull-dog  tenacity  to  vrhich  allusion  has  before  been  made ; 
for  it  is  not  every  man  to  whom  such  words  of  spiteful  proph- 
esy and  determined  discouragement,  coming  from  the  lips 
of  a  pretty  woman  who  made  her  own  love  the  excuse  for 
uttering  them,  would  have  been  without  their  effect.  They 
might  as  well  have  been  uttered  to  one  of  the  granite  gods  of 
■^Id,  as  to  Compton,  so  far  as  moving  him  to  any  change  of  pur- 
pose was  concerned  ;  but  his  temper  was  by  no  means  of  as 
good  proof  as  his  determination.  In  fact,  Kitty  Hood's 
spiteful  expostulations  very  soon  made  him  ill-natured  if  not 
angry  ;  and  by  the  time  the  culmination  already  recorded  was 
reached,  he  was  quite  ready  to  say,  in  a  tone  corresponding 
to  her  own  : 

"Well,  I  will  go,  Kitty  Hood,  whether  you  like  it  or  not. 
t  was  a  fool  not  to  go  away  without  walking  a  mile  further  to 
iet  you  know  any  thing  about  it." 


THE      COWARD.  67 

"  Nobody  asked  you  !"  was  the  petulant  reply. 

"Nobody  need  to  ask  me,  next  time  !"  was  the  rejoinder. 
"  I  have  a  right  to  be  killed,  if  I.  please,  and  it  is  none  of  your 
business  whether  I  am  or  not.  A  pretty  world  it  would  be, 
with  half  of  it  made  up  of  women  too  weak  and  too  cowardly 
to  fight  a  cat,  and  the  other  half  of  men  tied  fast  of  their 
apron  strings,  so  that  they  had  to  ask  every  time  they  wanted 
to  go  away,  just  as  one  of  your  little  whelps  of  school-boys 
whines  :   '  Please  to  let  me  go  out !'  '^ 

Kitty  Hood  was  finding  a  tongue  quite  as  sharp  as  her 
own,  by  this  time,  and  the  effect  was  very  much  what  is  often 
seen  in  corresponding  cases.  Finding  her  lover  growing  as 
angry  as  herself,  and  a  little  more  violent,  the  young  school- 
mistress concluded  that  it  was  time  to  assume  a  less  decided 
demeanor,  so  that  if  they  must  part  they  might  do  so  without 
an  absolute  quarrel. 

"Well,  Dick,"  she  said,  after  a  moment  of  pause,  "there  is 
no  use  of  your  being  angry  about  it  !"  Just  as  if  she  had  not 
been  showing  ill-temper  from  the  beginning — the  minx ! 
"  Of  course  I  cannot  hold  you,  and  do  not  wish  to  do  so,  if 
you  prefer  dressing  yourself  up  in  that  ridiculous  manner  and 
standing  up  to  be  shot  at,  to  remaining  here  with  ??ie." 

"  I  don't  prefer  it,  you  know  I  don't,  Kitty  !"  said  Dick, 
aware  that  his  flank  of  conversation  had  once  more  been 
turned  and  himself  placed  in  a  false  position. 

But  here  came  an  interruption.  A  young  gentleman  of 
seven  made  his  appearance  in  the  door  of  the  school-room,  his 
hands  blacker  than  the  proverbial  ace-of-spades,  his  nether 
raiments  spotted,  and  his  face  drawn  into  a  most  comical  whim- 
per, while  his  words  came  out  between  a  sob  and  a  hiccough  : 

"  Please,  Miss  Hood,  won't  you  colne  in  to  Jem  Stephen- 
son ?  He  has  gone  and  upsot  the  inkstand  all  over  my  hands 
and  spoilt  my  new  trowsers  !" 

"Go  in  and  keep  your  seat,  you  young  villain,  or  I  shall 
flog  you  and  Jem  Stephenson  both  !"  was  the  consoling 
assurance  with  which  the  "young  villain"  departed;   while 


(38  TIIECOWARD. 

the  hum  from  the  school-room  was  evidently  increasing, 
and  the  3^oung  sehool-niistress  felt  that  she  must  indeed  suuu 
resume  the  reins  of  governnient  if  she  was  not  to  be  perma- 
nently left  without  a  realm  worth  ruling.  But  she  took  time 
to  rejoin  to  Compton's  last  assertion. 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  of  the  kind.  I  say  that  if  you 
thought  half  as  much  of  me  as  you  did  of  public  opinion  and 
making  a  show  of  your  fine  new  clothes,  you  would  not  stir 
one  step." 

"Now,  Kitt}',  do  be  reasonable — "  again  began  Compton. 

"  Look  at  other  people — don't  they  respect  the  wishes  of 
those  they  expect  to  marry  ?"  the  young  lady  went  on,  not 
heeding  his  last  attempt.  "  See — there  is  Carlton  Brand — who 
does  not  know  that  he  has  remained  at  home  ever  since  the 
war  broke  out,  though  he  could  have  been  a  Colonel  and 
perhaps  even  a  General — just  because  he  was  really  in  love 
with  Margaret  Hayley,  and  she  did  not  wish  him  to  leave 
her?" 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  at  this  stage  of  the  narra- 
tion, that  Miss  Kitty  Hood  was  "begging  the  question." 
She  had  never  heard  one  word  to  indicate  why  Carlton  Brand 
had  not  accepted  his  opportunities,  and  she  merely  mentioned 
the  two  as  people  of  prominence  in  the  section,  acquaintances, 
and  the  first  pair  of  lovers  of  whom  she  happened  to  think. 
But  she  had  made  a  terrible  blunder,  as  many  of  us  do  at  the 
very  moment  when  we  seem  to  be  performing  the  very  keenest 
of  operations.  Carlton  Brand — one  of  the  finest-looking  men 
to  be  found  within  a  radius  of  an  hundred  miles,  a  member 
of  one  of  the  liberal  professions,  and  known  to  be  wealthy 
enough  to  afford  indulgence  in  any  line  of  life  which  he 
might  happen  to  fancy — was  naturally  an  object  of  envy 
if  not  of  suspicion  to  hundreds  of  other  young  men  who 
did  not  feel  that  they  possessed  quite  the  same  advantages. 
Young  farmers,  who  chanced  to  catch  him  saying  a  polit-e 
'wcrd  to  their  sisters,  looked  at  him  through  eyes  not  too 
confiding,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  not  even  rumor  had  pointed 


THE      COWARD.  69 

out  a  sinj^le  instance  in  which  he  had  indulged  in  a  dishonor- 
al)le  amour  ;  and  those  who  detected  him  in  glances  of  kind- 
ness (perhaps  of  admiration)  towards  demoiselles  whom  they 
had  marked  out  as  their  own  destined  marital  property,  had 
a  bad  habit  of  even  looking  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes 
and  scowling  a  little,  at  such  manifestations.  Carlton  Brand, 
in  all  this,  was  only  paying  a  very  slight  penalty  for  his  triple 
advantage  of  wealth,  position  and  good  looks,  while  many 
others  pay  the  same  unpleasant  toll  to  society  for  the  posses- 
sion of  even  one  (and  sometimes  none)  of  the  three  favors  of 
fortune. 

The  farm-house  of  the  Comptons  and  the  residence  of  the 
Brands  (as  will  be  hereafter  made  apparent)  lay  but  a  very 
short  distance  apart ;  and  the  little  house  (perhaps  it  might 
with  more  propriety  have  been  called  a  cottage)  in  which 
Kitty  Hood  had  seen  the  light,  and  where  she  lived  with  her 
quiet  widowed  mother,  was  still  nearer  to  the  abode  of  the 
young  lawyer.  Though  the  Hoods  were  much  more  humbly 
circumstanced  than  their  neighbors,  intercourse  between  the 
two  families  had  always  been  frequent,  with  a  very  pleasant 
friendship  between  Elsie  and  Kitty,  and  more  visits  of  the 
young  girl  at  the  residence  of  the  Brands,  and  of  Carlton, 
accompanying  his  sister,  to  that  of  the  Hoods,  than  at  all 
pleased  the  lover  and  expectant  husband  of  Kitty.  Then  the 
latter  bad  a  head  a  little  giddy  and  a  tongue  more  than  a 
little  imprudent;  and  she  had  shown  the  bad  taste,  many 
times  since  their  tacit  engagement,  to  draw  comparisons,  in 
the  presence  of  her  lover,  to  his  disadvantage^  and  in  favor  of 
a  man  who  had  much  better  opportunities  than  the  farmer 
for  keeping  his  clothes  unimpeachable,  his  hands  unsoiled, 
and  his  cheek  unbrowned.  Only  very  imprudent  people, 
and  perhaps  very  unfeeling  ones,  use  such  words ;  but  thfty 
are  used  much  too  often,  ignoring  the  pure  gold  that  may  lie 
within  a  rough  nugget,  and  preferring  the  mere  tinsel  leaf  on 
a  bit  of  handsome  carving.     Kitty  Hood   was  one  of  the 


70  T  H  E      C  O  W  A  K  D . 

thoughtless,  and  she  was  likely,  some  day,  to  pay  the  penalty 
in  a  manner  she  little  anticipated. 

Within  the  few  weeks  previous,  without  Kitty  being  at  all 
aware  of  the  fact,  Mr.  Dick  Compton  had  allowed  himself  to 
ruminate  more  than  was  healthy  upon  the  glances  he  had 
chanced  to  see  interchanged  between  Kitty  and  her  "stuck- 
up  lawyer  friend,"  as  he  chose  to  designate  him,  and  upon 
the  continual  commendations  which  she  chose  to  bestow 
on  the  latter — until  rooted  personal  dislike  and  something 
very  near  to  positive  jealousy,  had  been  the  result.  Walking 
over  towards  the  rendezvous  that  morning,  if  one  shadow  of 
hesitation  on  the  subject  of  going  to  Harrisburgh  had  passed 
through  the  mind  of  the  young  farmer,  it  was  caused  by  his 
dislike  of  leaving  Kitty  out  of  view,  with  Carlton  Brand  in 
the  same  near  neighborhood.  All  that  difficulty  had  been 
removed  by  the  understanding  that  the  lawyer  was  to  leave 
at  the  same  time  and  on  the  same  service  with  himself;  but 
when  Kitty  at  once  revived  the  obnoxious  name  with  a  new 
phrase  of  commendation,  and  signified  that  the  section  was 
not  to  be  relieved  of  the  lawyer's  presence  during  his  own 
absence,  it  is  not  very  strange  that  the  unreasonable  demons 
of  jealousy  began  tugging  again  at  his  heart-strings,  and  that 
he  felt  like  performing  some  severe  operation  upon  tho 
Mordecai  who  sat  in  his  gate,  if  he  could  only  catch  him  ! 

"  So  you  have  got  to  quoting  Carlton  Brand  again,  have 
you  I"  he  responded  to  Miss  Kitty's  citation.  "  I  thought  1 
had  told  before  that  I  had  heard  nearly  enough  of  that  proud 
puppy  I" 

"'Puppy'  indeed!"  and  Miss  Kitty  fired  in  an  instant. 
"  He's  nothing  of  the  kind,  but  a  man  and  a  gentleman,  and 
you  know  it,  Dick  Compton  !" 

"Oh,  yes,  a  geiitlemaii,  and  ih^t  suits  you  to  a  turn,  Kitty 
Hood!"  was  the  sneering  reply.  "When  your  g*^'ntiemen 
arc  in  the  way,  you  think  that  an  honest  hard-working  man 
is  nobody." 

If  ever  a  man  spoke  an  unjust  word  to  a  woman  (and  it  is 


THE      C  O  W  A  K  I) .  71 

to  be  feared  that  a  great  many  have  been  uttered  since  the 
unfortunate  gift  of  ppeech  was  conferred  upon  the  race),  Dick 
Compton  was  stupidly  unjust  at  that  moment.  For  the  very 
quarrel  (it  was  but  little  else,  from  first  to  last)  in  which 
they  were  engaged,  had  originated  in  the  young  girl's  evident 
anxiety  for  his  safety  and  pleading  that  he  would  nut  go 
awav  and  leave  her,  even  for  a  short  period  !  Kitty  Hood 
felt  the  injustice,  if  he  did  not,  and  all  the  old  rage  came  back 
again,  in  a  varied  form,  but  hotter  than  ever.  Her  eyes 
flashed,  she  choked  for  a  moment,  and  then,  before  Dick  Comp- 
ton could  be  at  all  aware  what  was  about  to  happen,  the 
scliool-mistress  drew  her  little  white  hand  back  and  ))rought 
him  a  ringing  box  on  the  ear  and  cheek,  that  the  latter  would 
not  be  very  likely  to  forget  for  a  fortnight, — while  she  flashed 
out : 

"  Dick  Compton,  just  take  that  for  a  fool  1  You  are  not 
worth  any  honest  woman's  loving,  with  your  mean  jealousy. 
You  can  go  where  you  please,  and  I  will  never  speak  to  you 
again  until  you  learn  better  manners  than  to  talk  to  me  in 
that  manner  !" 

Before  the  jealous  lover  had  half  recovered  from  the  blow 
she  stepped  away  from  him  and  put  her  foot  on  the  sill  of 
the  door,  to  re-enter.  Compton,  spi.te  of  the  tingle  in  his 
cheek,  did  not  quite  believe  in  the  propriety  of  parting  in  that 
manner,  when  he  was  just  going  to  the  war ;  and  he  made  a 
step  towards  her. 

"  Kitty  ! — oh,  now,  Kitty — " 

"  Keep  off,  Dick  Compton  !  Good-day  and  good-bye,  and 
nobody  cares  where  you  go  or  how  long  you  stay  !"  was  the 
forbidding  rejoinder,  as  the  school-mistress  swung  herself 
round  the  jamb  of  the  door  and  half  disappeared.  Her  blood 
was  at  fever  heat :  that  of  her  lover  was  likely  to  be  at  the 
same  pitch  in  a  moment. 

"  You  won't  come  back,  then  ?" 

"  No,  I  won't !" 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  something,  Kitty  Hood  I"  and  the 


72  T  H  E      C  O  W  A  K  D. 

young  man  was  very  angry  and  very  earnest  when  Le  made 
the  threat.  "  If  I  ean  catch  Carlton  Bran«l  before  I  go  away 
tornight,  I  will  just  flog  him  till  he  is  the  nearest  to  a  dead 
man  you  ever  saw, — and  see  how  you  both  like  it  !'' 

Without  another  word  the  young  farmer  turned  and  strode 
round  the  corner  of  the  school-house  with  his  bundle  and  his 
intlignation,  making  hasty  strides  up  the  hill  and  towards  the 
woods  that  lay  in  the  direction  of  his  home.  Kitty  Hood 
saw  thus  much,  and  realized  that  very  probably  she  was  look- 
ing at  him  for  the  last  time.  Then  she  realized,  too,  what 
she  had  scarcely  felt  before — that  she  had  been  terribly  to 
blame  in  the  quarrel — that  she  might  have  been  wrecking  the 
liappiness  of  a  life  by  her  ill-temper — and  that  it  would  never 
do  to  let  poor  Dick  go  away  to  the  war,  so  angry  at  her  that 
if  killed  his  last  thought  would  be  upon  every  one  else  rather 
than  her,  and  that  if  he  returned  he  would  never  come  near 
her  again — never  !  Then  poor  Kitty  dropped  her  head  upou 
her  desk,  heedless  of  the  only  partially-hushed  randemonium 
around  her  and  the  necessity  of  settling  with  Master  Jem 
Stephenson,  spiller  of  ink  and  others, ■ — dropped  her  head  upon 
her  desk  and  sobbed  loudly  enough  for  some  of  the  children 
to  be  quite  aware  of  the  fact,  so  that  one  of  the  little  boys 
hazarded  the  remark,  sotlo  voce :  "  Wonder  what  is  the  matter 
W'ith  her  !"  and  a  bigger  one  enlightened  his  ignorance  with  : 
"  Why,  didn't  you  see  ?  Her  beau  has  got  on  sojer  clothes 
and  is  going  away — stupid  !" 

Only  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  Kittv  Hood  could  endure 
the  struggle  no  longer.  She  was  very  unhappy  and  not  a 
little  penitent.  She  could  not  remain  any  longer  in  the 
midst  of  those  noisy  children  :  she  mu.<t  go  home  (or  else- 
w^here)  and  see  what  facilities  fate  might  yet  throw  in  her 
way  for  seeing  and  speaking  once  more  to  her  angry  lover 
before  his  departure.     Perhaps  she  could  even  Gnd  some  means, 

still,  for  inducing  him  to  remain,  and  then   .     And  at 

that  thought  the  school- mistress  raised  her  head,  informed 


1^  H  p:     cow  a  R  D  .  6 

hoY  school  that  she  had  a  bad  headache  and  must  go  home  to 
bod,  and  dismissed  them  for  a  half-holiday. 

Whereupon  one  of  the  larjj^cr  girls,  who  had  seen  the  lovor 
go  away,  without  hearing  any  of  the  parting  words,  and  who 
thought  that  she  understood  all  about  the  affair,  remarked  to 
OHO  of  lior  companions  that  :  "  That  was  real  nice,  and  she 
ili.)ught  all  the  bettor  of  Miss  Hood  for  it !"  while  one  of  the 
liirger  boys,  unawake  as  \'et  to  any  of  the  softer  feelings, 
bawled  out  to  his  mates  that :  "  Miss  Hood  was  going  to  see 
her  old  beau  of^ — ki-yah  !"  It  is  painful  to  be  obliged  to  say, 
justifying  previously-expressed  apprehension,  that  even  the 
stranded  vessel  was  forgotten  in  the  haste  with  which  the 
school  separated,  and  that  all  the  imaginar}"  pirates  of  the 
Society,  the  Friendly  and  various  other  islands  that  main- 
tained every  thing  else  rather  than  friendly  society  for  sailors, 
liad  at  least  one  day  more  of  chance  at  her  with  their  canoes 
and  pirogues. 

Her  scholars  dismissed,  Kitty  Hood  took  time  to  wash  and 
cool  her  eyes  and  to  smooth  her  hair,  for  a  moment^,  at  the 
little  wash-closet  in  one  corner  of  the  school-room — then 
flung  on  her  light  bonnet  and  gauzy  mantle  and  took  her  way, 
walking  somewhat  rapidly  in  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  coming 
noon,  along  the  path  that  led  around  the  base  of  the  hill  north- 
westward towards  the  residence  of  Carlton  and  Elsie  Brand. 

Mr.  Richard  Compton  had  meanwhile  been  walking  yet 
more  rapidly,  with  his  bundle  under  his  arm,  up  the  path 
loading  over  the  hill,  almost  due  north,  and  through  the  bolt 
of  woods  discernible  from  the  school-house.  AVhether  the 
increasing  heat  of  the  day  added  to  the  heat  of  his  temper  is 
uncertain  ;  but  certain  it  is  that  he  did  not  at  all  cool  down 
under  it.  He  had  tlie  excuse  of  being  the  party  lad  ill-used, 
if  not  indeed  the  party  Jirnt  so  treated.  He  loved  Kitty 
Hood  beyond  all  reason,  and  he  was  of  course  the  person 
most  likely  to  grow  angry  at  her  and  jealous  of  her,  beyond 
all  endurance.  He  felt  that  he  could  not  worse  punish  her, 
or  better  satisfy  himself,  than  by  carrying  out  his  threat  and 


74  T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D . 

soundly  flogging  Carlton  Brand  if  he  should  once  catch  hira 
under  proper  circumstances;  Le  had  no  doubt  whatever  of 
his  ability  to  flog  him  or  "any  other  man,"  when  he  once  set 
about  the  task;  and  while  surmounting  the  hill,  and  even 
after  plunging  into  the  cool,  thick,  Icufy  woods,  full  of  the 
twitter  of  birds  and  the  fragrance  of  June  blossoms,  which 
should  have  had  the  power  to  soften  passion  in  the  breast  of 
any  man  who  held  a  true  S3^mpathy  with  Nature,  his  mental 
fists  were  clenched  and  his  teeth  set  in  a  manner  most 
threatening  for  any  opposing  force  with  which  he  might 
happen  to  be  brought  into  contact. 

That  "  opposing  force"  was  much  nearer  than  the  young 
man  at  tl^e  moment  imagined.  He  was  just  emerging  by  the 
path  to  the  main  road  which  he  was  to  cross,  half  a  mile 
before  reaching  his  own  farm,  when  he  saw  a  horseman 
riding  rapidly  up  from  the  eastward.  Intersecting  the  path 
just  where  it  joined  the  road,  was  a  blind  road  leading  through 
the  woods  across  toward  the  Darby,  and  closed  at  the  entrance 
by  a  swinging  gate.  There  was  a  low  panel  near  it,  and  the 
young  farmer  leaped  it  in  preference  to  unfastening  the 
clumsy  latch — finding  himself,  when  beyond  the  fence,  in  the 
presence  of  Carlton  Brand,  who  had  just  reined  in  his  horse 
at  the  gate.  Whatever  there  may  have  been  in  the  face  of 
the  horseman  at  that  moment,  within  a  few  mfnutes  after  his 
leaving  the  presence  of  Margaret  Hayley  and  his  sister,  the 
eyes  of  Dick  Compton  w^ere  not  sufficiently  keen  to  recognize 
it.  He  only  saw  the  handsome,  proud-looking  young  lawyer, 
and  his  old  antipathy  rose,  with  the  remembrance  of  the 
threat  he  had  just  used,  accompanying  it.  Carlton  Brand 
saw  nothing  more  in  the  face  of  the  young  farmer  than  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  see,  and  accosted  him  as  he  might  have 
done  any  other  acquaintance,  under  the  same  circumstances, 
with  a  request  for  a  slight  service. 

"  Ah,  Compton,  is  that  you  ? — just  be  kind  enough  to  throw 
open  that  gate  for  me,  will  you  ?" 

"  Xo — I'll  not  do  any  thing  of  the  kind.      If  you  w^ant  the 


THE      COWARD.  75 

gfite  open,  just  get  otV  and  open  it  yourself!''  was  the  surly 
reply,  very  much  to  the  ustunishment  of  the  lawyer.  His 
face  paled  a  little,  then  flushed,  and  he  hesitated  for  aa 
instant  before  he  asked  : 

"AVhat  do  you  mean,  Richard  Compton,  by  answering  me 
in  that  manner  ?" 

"What  I  say  !"  answered  Compton,  quite  as  insolently  as 
before.  "  You  are  a  puppy,  Carlton  Brand,  and  I  have  half 
a  mind  to  take  you  off  that  horse  and  flog  you  soundly, 
instead  of  opening  a  gate  for  you." 

"  The    d 1   you    have  I"   was   the  very  natural    reply. 

"  Well,  Dick  Compton,  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  all  about, 
but  you  are  behaving  very  much  like  a  ruflian,  to  a  man  who 
has  never  done  any  thing  worse  to  you  than  to  treat  you  like 
a  gentleman." 

**  You  lie,  Carlton  Brand,  and  you  know  it !"  was  the  re- 
sponse. 

"  I  lie,  do  I  ?"  and  the  speaker  shifted  a  little  uneasily  in 
his  saddle,  though  he  made  no  apparent  movement  to  alight. 

"Yes,  you  lie  !"  said  Compton,  his  voice  thick  and  hoarse 
with  agitation  and  anger.  "  And  if  you  will  get  off  that 
horse  I  will  teach  you  a  lesson  about  meddling  with  other 
people's  property,  that  you  will  remember  for  a  twelvemonth." 

If  Carlton  Brand's  face  expressed  intense  surprise,  it  was 
certainly  nothing  more  than  he  felt ;  for  w^hat  the  "  meddling 
with'  other  people's  property"  could  mean,  except  that  he 
might  unwittingly  have  run  across  some  interest  of  Compton's 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  profession,  he  had  no  more  idea  than  he 
could  have  had  of  the  number  of  trees  in  the  adjoining  wood 
or  the  depth  of  soil  on  which  Lis  horse  was  standing.  Yet 
he  threw  his  leg  at  once  over  the  saddle,  at  the  last  saluta- 
tion, sprang  to  the  ground,  flung  his  bridle  over  one  of  the 
posts  near  the  gate,  and  said  : 

"  Now  then  !" 

In  an  instant  and  without  another  word,  Dick  Compton, 
who  had  dropped  his  bundle  as  the  other  dismounted,  sprang 


76  THE       COWARD. 

at  him,  fury  in  his  face  and  the  clench  of  determined  hostility 
in  every  nerve.  Probably  no  battle  on  earth  was  ever  fought 
so  singular!}^ — the  one  combatant  without  the  least  cause  for 
his  rage,  and  the  other  not  even  acquainted  with  the  accusa- 
tion made  against  him.  They  seemed  not  badly  matched,  in 
physical  force,  though  any  connoisseur  of  the  exclusively 
muscular  would  have  considered  Compton  likely  to  be  by  far 
the  most  enduring.  He  was  fifteen  or  twenty  pounds  the 
heavier,  and  fully  trained  by  field  labor ;  Brand  two  or  three 
inches  the  taller,  athletic,  and  a  little  the  longer  armed. 

Half  a  dozen  blows  were  rapidly  exchanged,  before  either 
succeeded  in  breaking  the  guard  of  the  other.  Then  Comp- 
ton managed  to  reach  the  lawyer's  cheek,  with  a  blow  of 
some  violence  that  probably  stung  wMthin  quite  as  much  an 
it  did  without.  At  all  events  it  brought  a  new  color  to  his 
face,  and  from  that  instant  he  was  cool  no  longer.  He  struck 
out  more  rapidly  and  angrily,  and  Compton  followed  his 
motion.  In  less  than  a  minute  half  a  dozen  blows  had  reached 
the  faces  and  bodies  of  each,  and  there  was  a  probability  that, 
whatever  the  event  of  the  fight,  both  would  be  injured  as  well 
as  disfigured.  Suddenly,  the  instant  after,  as  Compton  aimed 
a  well-directed  blow  at  the  throat  of  his  antagonist,  that  he 
believed  would  entirely  settle  the  affair,  something  happened, 
U[ion  which  he  had  not  calculated.  Whether  his  blow  was 
entirely  fended  he  did  not  know ;  but  what  he  did  know,  so 
far  as  he  knew  any  thing,  was  that  Carlton  Brand's  right'fist, 
dashed  out  with  a  force  little  less  formidable  than  the  kick  of 
an  iron-shod  horse,  struck  him  on  the  left  of  the  nose  and  the 
cheek  adjoining,  sending  a  perfect  gore  of  blood  spouting 
over  face  and  clothing,  and  throwing  him  reeling  backward, 
stunned  and  half  senseless,  to  the  earth, — the  fight  over,  so 
far  as  he  was  to  bear  any  part  in  it. 

There  was  onl}-  a  little  sensation  left  in  poor  Compton  at 
that  juncture,  but  that  little  cried  out  against  being  beaten 
down  in  such  a  manner  by  a  man  whom  he  had  before  con- 
sidered his  inferior  in  muscular  power,  and  whom  he  had  set 


THE      COWAKP.  77 

/ 

out  to  floo^.  The  bull-dog  within  him  wished  to  rise  and 
iiuike  another  effort,  but  for  a  moment  his  eyes  would  not 
open  and  his  head  woul<l  not  clear  sufficiently  for  him  to 
make  any  effort  at  reg-aining  his  lost  perpendicular.  AVhen 
he  thought  he  heard  a  groan  and  aloud  ''  tiuid"  on  the  ground, 
and  he  did  manage  to  struggle  to  a  sitting  position,  the 
sight  that  met  his  eyes  was  nearly  sufficient  to  drive  him 
back  into  his  partial  insensibility,  amazement  and  horror 
bt'ing  about  equally  compounded  in  the  spectacle.  Carlton 
Brand  lay  at  length  on  the  ground,  his  face  set  in  a  frightful 
spasm,  a  thin  white  froth  issuing  from  the  set  lips,  the  eyes 
closed,  and  not  even  a  quiver  of  motion  in  the  limbs.  Dick 
Compton  sprang  up,  then,  with  a  supernatural  energy  bom 
of  absolute  fright,  and  bent  over  his  prostrate  antagonist. 
To  all  appearance  he  was  dead  ! — dead  as  if  he  had  been 
lying  there  for  the  last  century  !  The  frightened  farmer  put  " 
his  hand  to  his  temples,  his  pulses  and  his  heart,  and  found 
uo  motion  whatever.  Then  the  dreadful  fear  took  possession 
of  him  that  his  own  last  blow,  which  he  remembered  aiming 
at  the  throat  of  the  other,  might  have  taken  effect  there  at 
the  same  moment  when  he  was  himself  struck  and  prostrated 
. — that  some  vital  part  of  the  throat  might  have  been  touched 
and  death  instantly  ensued  ! 

To  say  that  Dick  Compton  was  frightened  and  even  horri- 
fied at  this  unexpected  issue  of  the  pugilistic  combat  which 
he  had  forced,  is  indeed  to  put  the  case  very  mildly.  He  was 
literally  paralyzed,  for  the  moment,  with  consternation.  What 
was  his  fate  ? — to  be  a  homicide  !  And — good  God  ! — here 
another  thought  took  possession  of  him.  He  had  left  Kitty 
Hood  at  the  school-house,  only  a  little  while  before,  himself 
angry  and  in  a  dangerous  mood,  and  with  his  last  words 
threatening  personal  violence  against  Carlton  Brand  1  If 
he  should  be  dead — and  there  seemed  to  be  no  hope  to  the 
contrary — what  words  of  his  could  ever  persuade  the  schpol- 
mistress  that  he  had  not  entertained  enough  of  jealousy  and 
anger  against  the  lawyer  to  desire  his  death  ? — and  how  far 


78  T  H  E  -   C  O  W  A  R  I) . 

would  not  Kitty's  evidence  go  in  proving  before  a  criminal 
court  that  he  was  an  intentional  murderer  ? 

Such  reflections  are  not  pleasant,  to  say  the  least !  A  very 
few  of  them  go  a  great  way  in  a  man's  life.  Those  who  have 
been  placed,  even  for  ,one  moment,  in  the  belief  that  they 
have  suddenly  become  homicides,  need  not  be  told  how  far 
beyond  all  other  horrors  is  the  feeling :  those  who  have 
misled  the  sensation,  may  thank  God  with  all  reverence  for 
having  spared  them  one  of  the  untold  agonies  which  belong 
only  to  the  damned  ! 

Dick  Compton  was  not  one  of  the  most  delicate  of  men, 
either  in  action  or  perception,  but  he  was  a  good  fellow  in 
the  main,  with  quite  enough  of  intuition  to  foresee  the  worst 
perils  of  a  situation,  and  with  quite  enough  of  presence  of 
mind  to  act  quickly  in  a  desperate  emergency.  There  was 
yet  no  breath  or  motion  in  the  prostrate  man  :  he  would  die 
very  soon  if  not  already  dead :  something  might  yet  be  done  for 
him  :  but  that  something,  if  done  at  all,  must  be  done  at  once. 
Besides,  if  death  should  prove  to  be  real,  he  would  himself  be 
a  little  better  circumstanced  if  found  trying  to  preserve  the 
life  of  his  antagonist,  than  if  discovered  to  have  let  him  die 
without  effort.  A  mile  to  the  westward,  and  at  the  side  of 
the  very  road  at  the  edge  of  which  he  was  standing,  was  the 
residence  of  one  of  the  two  doctors  of  the  immediate  section, 
and  medical  assistance  might  be  procured,  with  the  aid  of  the 
fallen  man's  horse,  in  a  brief  period. 

With  this  thought"  in  mind,  and  in  far  less  time  after  the 
occurrence  of  the  catastrophe  than  it  has  needed  to  put  it 
upon  record,  Dick  Compton  had  unfastened  the  horse  of 
Carlton  Brand  from  the  post,  swung  himself  into  the  saddle, 
and  was  galloping  away  westward,  a  little  doubtful  in  mind 
whether  he  was  indeed  going  after  a  doctor  or  looking  fur  a 
convenient. gallows  and  a  hangman, — and  iwishing,  from  the 
bottom  of  his  soul,  that  he  had  never  entertained  quite  so 
good  an  opinion  of  his  personal  prowess  as  that  which 
had   led   him   into  such   a  terrible   position.     Once,   as   he 


T  U  E      C  O  W  A  H  I).  79 

galloped  ou,  be  caught  sight  of  his  new  military  trowsers,  and 
found  himself  thinking  whether,  when  they  hung  soldiers, 
they  allowed  them  to  retain  their  uniform  or  subjected  them 
to  the  degrading  alternative  of  the  prison  gray!  And  that  is 
all,  of  the  very  peculiar  reflections  of  Mr.  Dick  Compton  as 
he  sped  away  after  the  doctor,  that  needs  to  be  put  upon 
record. 

Kitty  Hood,  meanwhile,  leaving  the  school-house  perhaps 
ten  minutes  after  her  lover,  had  sped  along  the  path  at  the 
base  of  the  woods,  intent  on  going  over  to  the  residence  of 
the  Brands  and  seeking  advice,  if  not  assistance,  from  Elsie, 
in  her  dilemma.  She  had  quite  overcome  her  anger,  now, 
and  taken  into  her  young  heart  a  full  supply  of  that  which 
very  often  follows  the  former — anxiety  ;  and  her  feet  moved 
as  glibly,  in  the  better  cause  of  reconciliation,  as  her  tongue 
had  done  not  long  before  in  a  very  unreasonable  lovers' 
quarrel. 

The  path  she  was  pursuing  would  have  led  her  out  to  the 
main  road,  which  she  must  cross  to  reach  the  Brands',  some 
half  a  mile  further  west  than  the  point  at  which  the  gate  gave 
access  to  the  blind  road  through  the  wood.  But  there  was  a 
little  spot  of  marshy  ground  before  reaching  the  road ;  she 
remembered  that  her  shoes  were  thin  and  that  wet  feet  were 
disagreeable  even  in  June,  and  as  a  consequence  she  struck 
into  a  cross  path  which  intersected  the  blind  road  and  would 
bring  her  out  at  the  gate.  As  a  secondary  consequence,  she 
followed  that  road  and  came  out  a  minute  after  at  the  gate, 
to  open  it  without  observing  what  lay  beyond,  and  to  start 
back  with  a  scream  of  affright  as  she  saw  the  body  of  Carlton 
Brand  lying  on  the  green  sward  without,  his  face  still  set  in 
that  terrible  contortion,  and  the  rigidity  of  death  alike  in  limb 
and  feature. 

The  young  girl  had  seen  but  little  of  death,  and  n,ot  yet 
learned  to  regard  it  rather  as  a  deliverance  than  otherwise  ; 
and  in  any  shape  it  frightened  her.  How  natural,  then,  that 
she  should  regard  it  with  peculiar  horror  when  she  came 


80  THE      COWARD. 

upon  it  alone,  by  a  wood-side,  and  in  the  person  of  an 
acquaintance  equally  admired  and  respected  !  But  what 
must  have  been  her  feelings  when,  the  moment  after,  and 
before  she  had  commanded  herself  sufficiently  to  do  more 
than  utter  that  single  scream  of  terror,  she  saw  a  bundle  lying 
near  the  apparently  dead  man,  saw  blood  staining  one  of  his 
hands  and  the  grass  beside  him,  and  recognized  the  bundle  as 
the  same  she  had  seen,  not  half  an  hour  before,  under  the  arm 
of  Richard  Compton  ! 

If  that  unfortunate  young  man,  on  discovering  the  supposed 
extent  of  his  mishap,  had  remembered  the  threat  against  the 
lawyer  made  but  a  little  while  before  to  Kitty,  how  did  that 
threat  spring  into  her  mind  on  seeing  the  blood  and  recog- 
nizing the  bundle  !  Murder,  beyond  a  doubt,  and  Dick  Comp- 
ton the  murderer!  The  two  had  met,  accidentally,  had  quar- 
rolled,  had  clenched,  and  in  that  clench  her  lover  had  forgotten 
all  except  his  jealousy  and  fear  of  the  lawyer,  and  had  killed 
him  outright !  Oh,  here  was  trouble,  indeed,  to  which  that 
of  a  few  moments  previous  had  been  but  the  merest  shadow  ! 
Dick  would  be  arrested,  tried,  imprisoned,  perhaps  hung; 
and  she  would  be  obliged  to  give  the  fatal  evidence  that  must 
seal  his  doom  !  Terrible  indeed — most  terrible  ! — the  thought 
culminating  in  such  mental  suffering  that  the  poor  girl  scarcely 
knew  whether  she  was  treading  upon  earth  or  air,  as  she  took 
one  more  look  upon  the  motionless  form,  the  blood,  and  the 
accusing  bundle  that  lay  beside — then  turned  her  back  with  a 
shudder  upon  all,  crossed  the  road  and  hastened  over  the 
fields  beyond,  by  a  bye-path  that  would  lead  her  to  the  home 
of  the  murdered  man — her  errand  now,  and  her  reason  for 
haste,  how  different  from  w^hat  it  had  been  when  walking 
towards  the  same  destination  but  a  few  moments  before  ! 


T  n  K      C  O  W  A  T^  D .  81 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Ttte  Residence  of  the  Brands — Robert  Rrand  and  Dr. 
riiiLip   I'oMEROY — Radical    and    Cori'ERirEAD — A    pas- 

SA(iE-AT-ARMS     THAT     ENDKD     IN     A      QuARREL  —  ELSPETfl 
(iRAEME     THE    HOUSEKEEPER 'PriE     SllADOW    OF     SlIAME 

Father   and  iJAUGHTt^R — The  Fallino   of   a   Parent's 
Curse. 

Half  a  mile  northward  from  the  Market  street  road  whieh 
lias  already  been  before  so  many  times  alluded  to — on  the 
north  side  of  that  road  and  at  the  distanee  of  a  mile  westward 
from  the  Hayley  residence,  was  located  that  before  mentioned 
as  the  abode  of  the  Brands.  It  was  a  fine  old  house,  built 
fifty  or  sixty  years  before,  but  within  a  few  years  repaired  and 
rebuilt  with  a  lavish  disregard  of  cost,  a  railed  promenade 
having  been  added  at  the  apex  of  the  steep  roof,  the  whole 
two  stories  of  height  re-enclosed,  the  windows  and  doors  com- 
paratively modernized,  the  piazzas  remodelled  and  widened, 
and  all  done  that  the  carpenter's  art  could  well  be  expected 
to  achieve,  to  add  to  the  comfort  and  durability  of  the  man- 
sion without  destroying  the  appearance  of  respectable  age 
which  it  had  already  put  on.  The  house  stood  facing  south- 
ward upon  nearly  level  ground,  the  lawn  in  front  of  good 
depth  and  thickly  dotted  with  forest  and  other  shade  trees 
that  had  evidently  known  all  the  years  of  the  building ;  while 
from  the  eastern  side  a  narrow  lane  ran  down  to  the  road  and 
afforded  ingress  and  egress  to  carriages  passing  back  towards 
tlie  handsomely-grouped  range  of  outbuildings  in  the  rear. 
Adjoining  this  lane  and  behind  the  house  was  a  large  garden, 
with  grape  trellises  and  many  of  the  appliances  of  liixurv  in 
horticulture. 

At  the  eastern  end  of  the  piazza  abroad  single  door  opened 
into  the  somewhat  antiquated  hall  ;  and  from  that  hall  a  door 
opened  into  a  parlor  fitted  up  with  every  appliance  of  conve- 
5 


82  THE      COWARD. 

Tiience  that  could  be  needed  in  sucli  a  eonntry  residence. 
Behind  that  parlor  another  door  opened  into  a  smaller  apart- 
ment correspondingly  fitted  but  with  more  of  those  beloncrings 
calculated  to  show  its  constant  occupancy  ;  and  from  that  rear 
room  still  another  door  opening  to  the  lel't  disclosed  a  bed- 
room of  comfortable  appearance  and  tasteful  arrangement. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  hall  the  dining  and  domestic  apart- 
ments stretched  away,  while  the  spacious  upper  story  sup- 
plied rooms  to  other  members  of  the  family. 

It  was  very  evident,  at  a  glance,  that  wealth  presided  over 
the  modernized  old  house,  and  that  good  taste  was  not  for- 
gotten ;  and  yet  an  impression  could  not  well  be  avoided  that 
there  must  be  something  of  severity,  and  repugnance  to  orna- 
ment, conjoined  with  the  wealth.  Poverty,  or  even  struggling 
pride,  would  not  have  afforded  so  much  of  the  best :  warm 
taste  and  lavish  liberality  would  have  supplied  something 
more  of  the  costly  and  the  luxurious. 

In  the  second  of  the  ;;poms  mentioned — that  immediately 
in  the  rear  of  the  parlor,  two  persons  were  in  conversation  ' 
at  about  noon  of  the  same  day  of  the  occurrences  previously 
recorded.  The  one,  sitting  in  an  easy-chair  with  his  right 
leg  raised  and  resting  upon  another  chair  crowned  with  a 
pillow, — was  apparently  sixty-five  to  seventy  years  of  age  ; 
tall,  if  his  proportions  could  properly  be  judged  as  he  sat, 
with  a  figure  that  must  have  been  robust  in  its  time  ;  the  hail 
so  nearly  white  as  to  preclude  any  idea  of  the  color  which  it 
might  have  worn  in  earlier  days  ;  the  face  well  cut  and  even 
handsome  for  its  age,  though  with  a  shade  of  severity  in  the 
firm  nose  and  shaven  lips,  which  under  some  circumstanceit 
might  grow  threatening ;  but  any  accurate  judgment  of  his 
character  rendered  difficult,  by  the  look  of  pain  stamped  upon 
his  face  by  evident  bodily  suffering.  Resting  against  a  smaU 
table  partially  covered  with  bandages  and  embrocations,  waa 
a  stout  cane,  indicating  both  that  the  invalid  was  in  the  habit 
of  using  a  support  of  that  character,  and  that  he  could  not, 
«ven  now,  be  entirely  confined  to  bis  chair.     Such  was  Robert 


THE      COWARD.  83 

Brand,  ovnor  of  tlie  mansion  into  which  we  have  been  intro- 
duced, and  father  of  two  children  a|)parently  as  little  alike  in 
nature  as  in  sex — Carlton  and  Ei.sie  Brand. 

The  second  figure  was  quite  as  well  deserving:  of  notice  as 
the  old  man  in  his  easy-chair.  Doctor  riiilij)  Ponieroy,  who 
wa.s  at  that  moment  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  without 
any  a})parent  cause  for  that  violent  exercise  in  warm  weather, 
was  a  man  in  whom  the  acute  physiognomist  might  have 
found  somethihg  illustrated  by  that  seemingly  listless  motion 
— something  possessed  in  common  by  restless  men,  in  the 
superior  animal  kingdom,  and  those  bears  and  hyenas  which 
seem  to  traverse  a  great  many  unnecessary  miles  in  travelling 
up  and  down  the  bars  of  their  cages,  in  the  inferior.  And 
yet  the  doctor  could  not  have  been  called,  \vitb  any  propriety, 
an  "animal-looking  man" — it  was  the  motion  w^hieh  supplied 
the  comparison.  He  was  apparently  forty-five  to  fifty,  tall  and 
slight  figured,  with  face  clean  shaven  except  a  heavy  dark 
moustache,  features  a  little  aquiline  and  decidedly  sharp  lips 
that  suggested  an  occasional  sneer  and  a  word  cutting  like  a 
scimetar,  eyes  of  keen  scintillant  dark  brown  or  black,  and 
rather  long  dark  straight  hair  through  which  the  threads  of 
silver  began  to  show  more  as  an  ornament  than  a  disadvan- 
tage. A  very  fine  looking  man — a  man  of  undoubted  power 
and  will — a  man  who  had  evidently  enjoyed  the  most  favor- 
able associations;  and  yet  how  nearly  a  man  to  be  either 
braved  or  trusted  without  reserve,  it  might  have  needed  Lava- 
ter's  self  to  decide  on  a  brief  acquaintance.  That  same 
Lavater,  if  acquainted  with  the  peculiarities  of  road  turn-outs, 
would  have  decided  one  point,  at  least,  from  the  vehicre  that 
stood  in  the  lane,  near  the  door — no  clumsy  and  cumbersome 
gig,  weighing  an  indefinite  number  of  tons  and  set  down  as 
the  proper  conveyance  for  doctors  from  the  day  when  the  first 
one  grew  too  lazy  to  walk, — but  a  light,  sporting-looking 
buggy,  seated  for  one,  and  suggesting  fast  driving  quite  as 
much  as  the  high-blooded,  thorough-bred  bay  that  champed 


84  T  II  E      C  O  W  A  i;  D . 

his  bit  before  it  antl  stamped  impatiently  forthe  coming  of  liia 
master. 

From  the  medieal  cliaraeter  of  the  visitor  and  the  disabled 
appearanee  of  the  man  in  the  easy-ehair,  it  might  have  bet-n 
ooiicluded  that  the  call  was  a  professional  one  ;  and  such  was 
indeed  the  fact.  An  injury  to  the  right  limb  of  KoluTt 
Brand,  received  many  years  before,  had  a  habit  of  asserting 
itself  at  uncertain  periods,  crippling  him  materially  all  the 
while,  and  at  those  particular  times  throwing  him  into  all 
those  agonies  indifferently  known  as  the  pangs  of  neuralgia 
end  inflammatory  rheumatism.  At  such  periods,  the  tradi- 
•tional  character  of  the  "gouty  old  Admiral"  of  the  English 
stage,  always  limping  and  thumping  a  heavy  cane,  and  nearly 
always  venting  words  more  forcible  than  polite,  was  very 
nearly  illustrated  in  the  old  gentleman,  his  desire  for  active 
motion^'beinig  generally  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  the  ix)\ver  of 
luovemec-t.  <■  Dr.  Pomeroy,  one  of  .the  most  skilful  of  the 
physicians  of  the  section,  and  a  man  in  very  extensive 
practice,  was  always  his  medical  adviser  at  such  times,  and 
re-directed  ^he  application  of  those  warm  flannels  and  neu- 
tralizing embrocations  which  constituted  all  that  even  science 
could  do  for  the  alleviation  of  his  sufferings,  and  about  which 
old  Elspeth  the  housekeeper  knew  a  good  deal  more,  all  the 
while,  than  any  physician  could  possibly  do.  For  the  three 
days  previous,  Robert  Brand  had  been  suffering  to  a  most 
painful  degree,  and  this  was  the  third  of  the  daily  visits  of 
the  doctor. 

But  w^hatever  might  have  been  the  professional  character 
of  the  visit,  it  had,  before  the  moment  when  our  attention  is 
called  to  the  two  interlocutors,  lost  any  feature  which  could 
have  marked  it  as  such.  Robert  Brand  was  a  patriot,  almost 
equally  warm-hearted  and  hot-headed  in  the  type  of  his 
attachment  to  his  country ;  while  Dr.  Pomero}^  was  one 
of  those  quasi-loyalists,  popularly  called  "  Copperheads,'^ 
who  have  the  love  of  country  quite  as  often  on  their  lips  as 
the  most  unshrinking  war- advocate  can  do,  but  who  prefer  to 


T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D .  85 

i^how  that  love  by  objecting  to  every  effort  made  for  the 
preservation  of  nationality,  by  denouncing,  in  every  nine 
words  out  of  ten,  something  done  by  the  loyal  government, 
while  only  the  poor  tenth  is  kept  for  a  wail  over  the  unfortu- 
nate character  of  the  "civil  war," — and  by  undervaluing 
every  success  won  by  the  Union  arms,  while  every  momentary 
advantage  gained  by  the  rebels  is  correspondingly  magnified. 
He  seemed  to  take  particular  delight,  always,  in  tormenting 
the  old  gentleman  just  to  the  verge  of  a  positive  rupture 
without  quite  causing  one  ;  and  just  now,  in  the  advance  of 
the  rebel  forces  into  Pennsylvania,  he  found  a  golden  oppor- 
tunity. 

"  Bah  I"  he  said,  in  response  to  a  strongly  patriotic  expres- 
sion of  his  patron,  which  had  led  him  to  bring  down  one  of 
his  hands  upon  the  disabled  leg  with  a  force  causing  a  new 
tingle  in  that  limb  and  a  new  expression  of  agony  upon  I  '-? 
face — "  bah  !  All  you  hot-headed  people,  young  and  old,  u-i 
just  such  language,  all  the  while.  It  amounts  to  nothing, 
except  that  perhaps  it  eases  your  minds.  Saying  that  '  the 
Union  must  and  shall  be  preserved,'  and  prophesying  all 
kinds  of  good  things  for  the  nation,  amount  to  but  very  little 
while  a.set  of  incapables  sit  filling  their  pockets  at  Washing- 
ton (more  than  half  of  them  traitors,  in  my  opinion),  while 
the  army  is  worse  mismanaged  than  it  could  be  if  a  set  of 
school-boys  led  it,  and  while  the  enemies  you  affect  to  de- 
spise are  really  winning  every  thing  and  overrunning  the 
whole  country." 

"  Out  upon  you,  Dr.  Pomeroy  !"  cried  the  old  man,  angrily, 
"  You  dare  to  call  yourself  a  patriot,  and  talk  in  that  manner  ! 
There  are  plenty  of  fools  at  Washington,  but  I  would  rather 
see  fools  there  than  traitors  I  If  you  are  not  a  perfect  block- 
head, you  know  that  the  rebels'  have  lost  twice  as  much  as 
they  have  gained,  within  the  past  year,  and  that  if  the  fight 
goes  on  in  the  same  manner  for  one  year  more,  the  miserable 
mongrel  concern  will  die  of  its  own  weakness  I  But  you  do 
not  want  it  to  die — that  is  just  what  ails  you! — you  would 


86  T  HE      CO  W  A  K  I). 

rather  see  Jeff  Davis  in  the  Capitol  than  any  loyal  man 
who  would  not  give  all  the  offices  to  your  miserable  broken- 
down  party  !" 

"And  you  would  rather  see  the  whole  country  lying  in 
ruins,  with  heaps  of  dead  everywhere  and  the  few  who  re- 
main starving  to  death  in  the  midst  of  them,  than  that  the 
country  should  be  in  any  other  hands  than  those  of  your 
friends  who  do  nothing  else  than  talk  about  the  nigger,  legis- 
late for  the  nigger,  and  fight  for  the  nigger  !"  answered  the 
doctor,  still  continuing  his  walk,  and  his  face  showing  decided 
temper. 

"It  is  false,  and  you  know  it,  Philip  Pomroy  !"  said  the 
invalid,  with  a  motion  of  his  hand  towards  the  big  cane,  which 
indicated  that  he  would  have  liked  to  use  it  by  breaking  it 
over  the  doctor's  head. 

"  It  is  true,  and  you  know  it,  Robert  Brand  I"  replied  the 
doctor,  whose  temper  seemed  to  return  to  its  equanimity  the 
moment  he  had  succeeded  in  throwing  his  patient  into  a 
sufficient  rage.  "  But  you  need  not  take  so  much  pains  to 
conceal  your  opinions,  old  gentleman  !  /  don't !  If  the 
country  is  to  lie  under  the  control  of  men  who  only  legislate 
and  fisrht  for  the  nigger,  who  trample  upon  the  Constitution 
and  fill  Fort  McHenry  and  Fort  Lafayette  and  Fort  Warren 
with  belter  men  than  themselves,  who  do  not  happen  to 
think  and  act  precisely  as  they  do, — why,  the  sooner  that 
Jeff  Davis,  or  any  one  else,  gets  possession,  the  better  for  all 
concerned." 

"Doctor  Pomeroy,  you  ought  to  be  taken  and  hung,  with 
the  other  traitors,  and  I  shouldn't  much  mind  having  a  pull 
at  the  rope  I"  broke  out  the  old  man,  now  almost  entirely 
beside  himself  with  indignation. 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  I"  answered  the  doctor,  whose  temper 
was  still  visibly  improving  as  that  of  his  patient  grew  worse. 
"Any  of  your  abolition  pack  would  have  hel})ed  to  hang  every 
democrat,  long  ago,  if  they  had  only  dared!  The  only 
trouble  is  that  they  did  not  do  it  while  they  had  the  oppor- 


T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D  .  87 

tunity.  Now  it  is  too  late.  You  daren't  open  the  doors  of 
your  State-prisons  any  more,  unless  it  is  to  let  somebody 
out !  And  before  many  days  some  of  you  will  sing  a  different 
tune — take  my  word  for  it.  Some  of  you  radicals,  even  here 
at  Philadelphia,  will  try  to  make  the  Confederate  leaders  be- 
lieve that  you  have  been  the  truest  friends  of  the  South,  all 
the  while." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  scoundrel  ?"  asked  the  old  gen- 
tleman, whose  harsh  words  to  a  man  somewhat  younger 
than  himself  appeared  to  be  fully  understood  and  not  taken 
in  quite  the  sense  which  they  might  have  borne  to  other  ears. 

"  1  mean  that  Lee  will  take  Harrisburgh,  and  that  next  he 
will  take  Philadelphia  ;  then — " 

"  Take  Purgatory  !  He  can  never  take  Harrisburgh,  let 
alone  Philadelphia  !" 

"  He  can  and  will  take  it  I     What  is  to  hinder  him  ?" 

"  Just  w^hat  has  hindered  his  taking  Washington,  any  time 
the  last  two  years — better  troops  than  his  own,  and  more  of 
them." 

"  Sheep  before  butchers'-dogs !  The  men  of  the  North 
have  never  gone  into  the  war  at  all,  and  they  never  will  go. 
That  scum  which  you  call  an  army  cannot  fight  the  earnest 
and  determined  men  of  the  South,  and  you  ought  to  know  it. 
Within  a  week  Lee  will  be  in  Philadelphia,  and  then  we  will 
see  about  the  change  of  tune  I" 

"  Within  a  week,  if  he  dares  advance,  he  will  be  eaten  up 
by  the  State  militia  alone,  even  if  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
does  not  save  them  the  trouble !"  said  the  old  man. 

*'  The  Army  of  the  Potomac  has  been  good  for  nothing  ever 
since  Hooker  blundered  its  last  opportunity  away  at  Chan- 
cellorsville  !"  retorted  the  physician.  "  The  army  has  no 
confidence  in  him,  and  the  country  has  no  confidence  either 
in  him  or  the  army.  The  State  militia  will  vigorously  stay 
at  home,  or  they  will  behave  so  badly  after  they  go  out,  that 
they  had  much  better  kept  where  nobody  saw  ihem  !  Oh. 
by  the  way  ! — "  and  the  face  of  the  doctor  lit  up  with  a  new 


88  T  H  p:     C  O  W  A  R  L) . 

expression.  A  sneev  settled  itself  upon  his  well-formed  lips, 
and  there  came  into  his  scintillant  eyes  a  gleam  of  deadly 
dislike  which  boded  no  good  to  the  subject  of  which  he  wa.s 
about  to  speak.  He  might  h^e  been  only  half  in  earnest, 
before,  while  driving  the  old  man  wild  with  his  Copperhead 
banter  ;  but  he  was  certainly  interested  in  what  he  was  about 
to  say,  now  ! 

"  Well  ?"  asked  the  patient,  querulously,  as  he  saw  that 
some  new  topic  was  to  interlard  that  which  had  already  been 
so  unpleasant. 

"That  State  militia  you  were  talking  about,"  said  the  doc- 
tor. "  Your  son  was  expected  to  take  up  his  old  commission 
and  go  out  with  one  of  the  regiments,  was  he  not  ?" 

"  He  was  not  only  expected  to  do  so,  but  he  has  done  so  !" 
answered  the  father,  with  love  and  pride  in  his  eyes.  "Not 
all  the  people  in  the  country  are  either  Copperheads  or 
cowards,  doctor ;  and  I  am  proud  to  tell  you  that  if  I  am  too 
old  and  too  much  crippled  to  take  part  in  the  battles  of  my 
country,  or  even  to  get  up  and  break  my  cane  over  your  head 
when  you  insult  the  very  name  of  patriotism, — I  have  a  son 
who  when  his  opportunity  comes  can  do  the  one  and  will  do 
the  other  !" 

"  When  his  '  opportunity'  comes !"  echoed  the  doctor, 
sneeringly. 

"  Yes,  his  opportunity  1"  re-echoed  the  father,  who  felt  that 
there  was  something  invidious  in  the  tone,  though  he  could 
not  read  that  face  which  might  have  given  him  a  better  clue 
to  the  character  of  the  man  with  whom  he  was  dealing.  "  My 
son  has  been  too  much  hampered  with  business  before,  to 
accept  any  of  the  chances  which  have  been  offered  him  ; 
but  now  that  his  native  State  is  invaded,  business  is  thrown 
by  and  you  will  find  him,  sir,  keeping  up  the  honor  of  the 
name." 

"  Humph  !"  said  the  doctor,  pausing  in  his  walk  and  for 
some  unexplainable  reason  going  to  the  window  and  looking 


•^  THE       CO  W  A  K  D .  89 

out ;  so  tliat  he  stood  with  his  back  to  the  old  gentleman. 
*'  Where  is  your  son,  now  ?" 

"  Where  ?  Gone  down  to  the  rendezvous  to  take  his  com- 
mission, of  course,  as  I  understand  that  the  troops  will  leave 
to-night." 

"  Humph  I"  once  more  said  the  doctor,  in  the  same  in- 
solent tone  and  retaining  his  position  at  the  window. 
"And  yet  I  happen  to  know  that  your  son  has  discovered 
some  new  '  businesi>,^  (with  a  terribly  significant  emphasis  on 
the  last  word)  and  that  he  is  not  going  one  step  with  the 
regiment." 

"  Dr.  Pomeroy,  I  know  better  !"  was  the  reply. 

"  Mr.  Brand,  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  a  good  deal 
better  than  you  imagine  !"  sneered  the  doctor,  who  having 
by  that  time  managed  to  get  his  face  into  that  shape  which 
he  had  no  objection  to  being  seen  by  his  patient,  now  turned 
about  and  faced  him,  with  his  hands  under  the  tails  of  his 
coat.  ' 

"What  do  you  know?"  was  the  inquiry,  a  little  trouble 
blending  with  the  anxiety  in  the  face. 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you,  as  perhaps  you  may  as  well  learn  the 
fact  from  me  as  from  any  one  else,"  answered  the  doctor,  his 
tones  now  very  smooth,  and  his  manner  almost  deferential,  as 
should  be  the  demeanor  of  any  man  towards  his  victim  at  the 
moment  of  stabbing  him  under  the  fifth  rib,  "  I  had  occasion 
to  call  at  the  armory  of  the  Reserves,  an  hour  or  two  ago,  to 
set  the  broken  arm  of  one  of  the  fellows  who  had  taken  too 
much  Monongahela  in  anticipation  of  his  start,  and  falhMi 
down-stairs.  I  learned  there  and  then,  with  some  surprise 
and  not  a  little  grief  (the  father  ought  to  have  caught  the  e.x- 
l)res6ion  of  his  face  at  that  moment,  and  thereby  measured 
the  "  grief"  indicated  !)  that  Mr.  Carlton  Brand  had  been 
down  at  the  armory,  alleged  his  businef^s  to  be  such  that  he 
could  not  possibly  leave  the  city,  and  declined  any  further 
connection  whatever  with  the  regiment." 

"  It  is  impossible  !"  said  the  father. 


90  THE      COWARD. 

"  It  is  true,  however,  like  a  good  many  impossible  things  !" 
again  sneered  the  physician.  "And  I  have  been  thinking 
whether  some  others  of  members  of  the  State  militia  would  not 
be  found  like  your  amiable  son — too  busy  to  pay  any  attention 
lo  the  defence  of  the  State  !" 

"  Dr.  Pomeroy  I"  said  the  father,  after  one  moment  of 
almost  stupefied  silence.  "  Dr.  Pomeroy,  you  have  not 
been  friends  with  my  son  for  a  long  time,  and  I  know  it, 
though  I  do  not  know  what  could  have  caused  any  disagree- 
ment. But  I  do  not  suppose  you  would  deliberately  tell  a 
falsehood  about  him  that  could  be  detected  in  half  an  hour; 
and  T  want  to  know  what  there  is  hidden  in  your  words,  more 
than  you  have  chosen  to  convey." 

"You  had  better  ask  your  son  when  he  comes  I"  was  the 
reply. 

"  No — I  ask  you,  now,  and  I  think  you  had  better  answer 
me  !"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Well,  then,"  answered  the  doctor,  "  if  you  insist  upon  it,  my 
love  for  the  young  man  is  not  so  warm  as  to  give  me  a  great 
deal  of  pain  in  the  telling,  and  you  may  know  all  you  wish. 
Your  son  has  been  doubted  a  little,  ever  since  the  breaking 
out  of  the  war,  from  his  repeated  refusals  of  positions  in  the 
army  ;  and — " 

"  The  man  who  says  that  my  son  is  disloyal,  lies  !"  cried 
the  old  man,  interrupting  him.     "  You,  or  any  other  man  !" 

"  It  was  not  on  the  ground  of  his  disloyally  that  be  was 
suspected  !"  sneered  the  doctor. 

"And  what  ground  then  ?"  asked  the  father,  his  face  and  his 
whole  manner  showing  something  terrible  within  that  could 
be  only  partially  suppressed. 

"  The  ground  of  his  cowardice,  since  you  will  have  it  I" 
spoke  the  doctor,  in  such  a  tone  of  fiendish  exultation  as 
Mephistopheles  may  have  used  to  Faust,  at  the  moment  of 
assuring  him  that  the  last  hope  of  happiness  on  earth  or  pardon 
from  heaven  had  been  swept  away  in  the  slaughter  of  Valen- 
tine and  the  moral-murder  of  Marguerite.     "  There  is  not  an 


THE      COWAKD.  91 

officer  in  the  Reserves,  who  heard  him  refuse  to  join  the  regi- 
ment this  morning,  but  believes  him — yes,  known  him,  to  be 
an  iirrant  poltroon." 

"  Doctor  Philip  Pomeroy,  you  are  a  liar  as  well  as  a  traitor 
and  a  scoundrel !  If  I  had  two  legs,  and  still  was,  as  I  am, 
old  enough  to  be  your  father,  you  would  not  leave  this  house 
without  broken  bones  1  Get  out  of  it,  send  me  your  bill  to- 
morrow, or  even  to-day,  and  never  let  me  see  you  set  foot  in 
it  again  while  I  live  !" 

The  face  of  the  old  man  was  fearful,  at  that  juncture.  In 
spite  of  the  pain  of  his  disabled  limb,  he  had  grasped  his  cane 
and  struggled  to  a  standing  position,  before  concluding  his 
violent  words  ;  and  as  he  concluded,  passion  overcame  all 
prudence,  and  the  heavy  cane  went  by  the  doctor's  head, 
crashing  through  the  window  and  taking  its  way  out  into  the 
garden,  at  the  same  moment  when  his  limb  gave  w^ay  and  he 
sunk  back  into  his  chair  with  a  groan  that  was  almost  a  shriek, 
clutching  at  the  bell-rope  that  hung  near  him  and  nearly  tear- 
ing it  from  its  fastenings. 

Dr.  Pomeroy  said  not  another  word,  whatever  he  might 
have  felt.  He  had  dodged  the  flying  cane,  by  not  more  than 
an  inch,  and  such  chances  are  not  likely  to  improve  the  tem- 
per of  even  the  most  amiable.  For  one  instant  there  was 
something  in  his  face  that  might  have  threatened  personal 
revenge  of  the  violence  as  well  as  the  unpardonable  words,  in 
spite  of  the  difference  of  age  :  then  the  sneer  crept  over  his 
face  again,  he  stepped  out  through  the  parlor  into  the  hall, 
took  his  hat,  and  the  next  moment  was  bowling  down  the 
lane  into  the  road,  behind  his  fast-trotting  bay.  It  seemed 
likely  that  his  last  professional  visit  to  the  Brands  had  been 
paid,  even  if  it  had  not  yet  been  paid  for  I 

The  terrible  appeal  of  the  master  of  the  house  to  the  bell- 
rope  at  his  hand  was  answered  the  moment  after  by  the 
appearance  of  a  woman  of  so  remarkable  an  aspect  as  to  be 
worthy  of  quite  as  much  attention  as  either  of  the  personages 
who   have   before   been   called,   in   the   same   room,  to  the 


92  T  H  E       C  O  W  A  R  I). 

reader's  attention.  Tier  dress  was  that  of  a  housekeeper  or 
upper  servant,  thonirh  the  hcijrht  of  her  carriage  and  the 
erectness  of  her  figure  might  liave  stamped  her  as  an  empress. 
And  in  truth  that  figure  did  not  need  any  such  extraordinary 
carriage  to  develop  it,  for,  as  compared  with  the  ordinary 
stature  of  woman,  it  was  little  else  than  gigantic.  The  man 
who  built  a  door  for  Elspeth  Graeme,  less  than  six  feet 
in  the  clear,  subjected  her  to  imminent  danger  of  bringing 
up  with  a  "  bump"  every  time  she  entered  it;  and  her  broad, 
square,  bony  figure  showed  that  all  the  power  of  her  frame 
had  not  been  frittered  away  in  length.  Her  hands  were 
large  and  masculine,  though  by  no  means  ill-shaped,  and  her 
foot  had  not  only  the  tread  supposed  to  belong  to  that  of  the 
coarser  sex,  but  very  nearly  its  size.  In  face  she  was  broad 
yet  still  longer  of  feature,  with  hair  that  had  been  light  brown 
before  the  gray  sifted  itself  so  thickly  among  it  as  to  render 
the  color  doubtful, — with  eyes  of  bluish  gray,  a  strong  and 
somewhat  coarse  mouth  with  no  contemptible  approach  to  a 
moustache  of  light  hairs  bristling  at  the  corners, — and  with 
complexion  wrinkled  and  browned  by  the  exposures  of  at 
least  sixty  years,  until  very  nearly  the  last  trace  of  what  had 
once  been  youth  and  womanhood  was  worn  away  and  forgot- 
ten. Yet  there  was  something  very  good  and  very  kindly 
amid  the  rugged  strength  of  the  face ;  and  while  little  children 
might  at  the  first  glance  have  feared  the  old  woman  and  run 
away  from  her  as  a  "witch,"  they  would  at  the  second  cer- 
tainly have  crept  back  to  her  knees  and  depended  upon  a 
protection  which  they  w^ere  certain  to  receive. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  say,  in  addition,  that  she  was  Scot- 
tish by  birth  as  well  as  by  blood  and  name — that  she  had 
come  to  this  country  nearly  forty  years  before,  when  Robert 
Brand  was  a  young  man,  and  attached  herself  to  the  fortunes 
of  the  family  because  they  were  Scottish  by  blood  and  she 
was  the  very  incarnation  of  faithful  feudality — that  his  daugh- 
ter h:id  been  named  Elspeth  (since  softened  to  Elsie)  at  her 
earnest  desire,  because  she  said  the  name  was  "  the  bonniest 


THE      COWARD.  93 

ava"  and  she  Imd  hcrsc'lf  bccni  nnnuHl  after  a  noljle  lady  wlio 
bore  it,  in  her  own  hind,  and  who  liad  dotio  mueh  to  give  her 
that  ni)riglit  earringe  by  standing  as  her  god-mother— and 
Ihat  for  many  a  long  year,  now,  she  had  been  the  working 
head  of  Iho  Brand  household,  scarcely  more  so  since  the  death 
of  its  weak,  hysterical  mistress,  a  dozen  years  before,  than 
>vhile  she  was  alive  and  pretending  to  a  management  which 
she  never  understood. 

If  any  one  person  beneath  that  roof,  more  legitimately  than 
another,  belonged  to  the  family  and  felt  herself  so  belonging, 
that  person  was  Elspeth  Graeme  ;  and  if  something  of  the 
romantic,  which  the  stern  sense  of  the  father  would  have  been 
slow  to  approve,  had  grown  up  in  both  his  children,  it  was  to 
the  partial  love  of  Elspeth  and  her  stories  of  Scottish  romance, 
poetry,  history,  song  and  superstition,  carrying  them  away 
from  prosaic  America  to  the  wnmpling  burns  and  haunted  f 
o-lens  of  the  land  from  which  their  blood  had  been  derived, —  • 
that  such  a  feeling,  fortunate  or  unfortunate  as  the  future 
might  prove,  was  principally  to  be  credited. 

*'  Did  you  ring,  sir  ?  Ech,  Lord,  the  men's  deein' !"  were 
the  two  very  different  exclamations  made  by  Elspeth  as  she 
entered  the  room,  after  the  departure  of  the  doctor,  and 
caught  sight  of  the  situation  in  which  the  master  seemed  to 
be  lying. 

"No,  Elspeth,  I  am  not  'deein'  as  you  call  it,"  he  growled 
out,  when  the  pain  of  his  exertion  had  again  somewhat  sub- 
sidud  and  he  could  find  breath  for  words.  "  But  I  wish  I 
was  !     Is  that  cursed  doctor  gone  ?" 

"He  was  gettin'  to  his  carriage  the  minute,  and  he's  awa 
by  this,"  answered  the  housekeeper.  "  But  what  ava  has  he 
been  doin'  to  ye  ?  Murderin'  ye  maybe  ! — they're  a  dolefu' 
uncanny  set,  the  doctors  !" 

"  If  you  ever  see  that  man  here  again,  and  you  don't  have 
him  shot  or  set  the  dog  on  him,  out  of  the  house  you  go,  neck 
and  crop,  the  whole  pack  of  you— do  you  hear  !"  was  the 
i-eply  to  Elspeth's  comment  on  the  medical  profession. 


94  THE      COWARD. 

"Just  as  ye  sav,  master,"  said  Elspoth.  "  I'll  set  Carlo  at 
him  myself,  if  ye  say  so ;  and  wo  but  tne  brute  w'ill  just 
worry  bim,  for  he  does  na  like  him  and  is  unco  fond  of  snap- 
pin'  aboot  his  heels  !" 

".Where  is  Elsie  ?"  was  the  next  question. 

*'  Gone  over  to  Mistress  Hayley's  the  mornin'.  Can  I  do 
any  thing  for  your  leg,  sir? — for  the  wench  in  the  kitchen's 
clean  daft,  and  I'll  be  wanted  there,  maybe." 

"  Xo — you  can  do  nothing.  My  leg  is  better.  l>ut  send 
Elsie  to  me  the  moment  she  comes  in." 

"  Hark  !"  said  the  housekeeper,  as  a  h'ght  foot  sounded 
on  the  piazza  and  came  in  through  the  hall.  "  There's  the 
lassie  hersel  — I  ken  her  step  among  a  thousand.  I'll  just 
send  her  in  to  you  the  moment  she  has  thrawn  afl'her  bonnet." 
And  the  old  woman  departed  on  her  errand. 

There  must  have  been  an  acuteness  beyond  nature,  in  the 
ears  of  old  Elspeth,  if  she  indeed  knew  the  tread  of  the  young 
girl ;  for  her  step,  as  she  entered  the  room,  was  so  slow,  lag- 
gard and  lifeless,  so  unlike  the  usual  springing  rapidity  of  her 
girlish  nature,  that  even  her  lover  might  have  been  pardoned 
for  failing  to  recognize  it.  It  was  as  if  some  crushing  weight 
fettered  her  limbs  and  bowed  down  her  brow.  And  a 
crushing  weight  indeed  rested  upon  her — the  first  unendur- 
able grief  of  her  young  life — the  knowledge  of  her  only 
brother's  shame.  Robert  Brand  marked  the  slow  step  and 
saw  the  downcast  head  ;  and  little  as  he  could  possibly  know 
of  the  connection  of  that  demeanor  with  the  subject  of  his 
previous  thought,  it  was  not  of  that  cheerful  and  reassuring 
character  calculated  to  restore  the  lost  equanimity  of  a  man  in- 
sulted in  the  tenderest  point  of  his  honor  and  chafed  beyond 
human  endurance.  His  first  words  were  rough  and  peremp- 
tory : 

"  Why  do  you  move  in  that  manner,  girl,  when  you  come 
to  see  me  ?  I  do  not  like  it — do  not  let  me  see  any  more 
of  it !" 

*'I  was  coming,  father  !"  was  poor  Elsie's  only  answer. 


T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D  .  95 

"  So  I  see — at  the  rate  of  ten  feet  an  liour  !  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  '/" 

"  Nothing." 

"Nothing?? — do  not  tell  nic  that,  j,nrl  !  I  know  better,  or 
vou  would  never  carry  that  gloomy  face  and  move  as  if  you 
wt'i-e  going  to  your  grandmother's  funeral  !" 

"  Indeed  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  me,  father  ;  but 
iiuTesoon  will  be,  if  you  s.cold  me  1"  and  the  young  girl, 
making  a  terrible  effort  to  be  cheerful,  came  up  to  his  side, 
put  her  arm  around  his  neck  and  pressed  her  lips  to  his  fore- 
head with  a  movement  so  pure  and  fond  that  it  might  have 
softened  Nero  at  the  moment  of  ordering  his  last  wholesale 
murder.  It  partially  disarmed  the  pained  and  querulous 
father.  He  put  his  arm  around  the  daughter's  waist,  re- 
turned the  pressure  and  seemed  to  be  soothed  for  a  moment 
by  resting  his  head  against  the  bosom  that  pressed  close  to 
him.  But  the  demon  that  had  been  roused  could  only  sleep 
thus  temporarily.  Directly  he  put  her  away,  though  not 
roughly,  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  and  asked  : 

"  Where  is  your  brother  ?" 

"You  know  he  went  down  to  town  this  morning,  and  he 
has  not  yet  come  home,"  was  the  reply,  with  an  effort  not  by 
any  means  a  successful  one,  to  keep  the  voice  from  quavering. 
The  practised  ear  of  the  father  detected  the  difference  between 
that  intonation  and  the  usual  unembarrassed  utterance  of  his 
daughter ;  and  he  naturally  connected  it  at  once  with  the  re- 
straint of  her  manner,  and  noticed  an  evasion  in  her  answer 
that  might  otherwise  have  escaped  him. 

'I  know  he  has  not  come  home,"  he  said.  "But  that 
was  not  my  question.  You  have  been  at  Mrs.  Hayley's 
where  he  spends  quite  as  much  of  his  time  as  here.  Have 
you  seen  him  ?" 

Elsie  Brand  would  have  given  the  proudest  feature  of  her 
personal  adornment,  at  that  moment,  to  be  able  to  lie  I  She 
saw  that  some  undefined  anxiety  with  reference  to  her 
brother  must  have  moved  her  father's  repeated  questions, 


96  TnE      COWARD. 

and  naturany  she  feared  tlie  worst — that  Carlton's  mad 
words  had  indeed  been  overheard,  and  that  even  in  that  brief 
space  of  time  some  messenger  of  evil  had  travelled  fast 
and  betrayed  the  fatal  secret.  If  so,  the  storm  was  al)out  to 
burst  on  tlie  devoted  head  of  lier  brother,  not  the  less  deadly 
because  she  nmst  bear  the  first  brunt  of  its  violence.  Yes — 
Elsie  Brand  would  almost  have  given  her  right  hand  to  be 
aide  to  lie  at  that  moment.  But  her  education  bad  been  as 
true  as  was  her  nature,  and  she  ujunaged  to  falter  out,  yet 
more  suspiciously : 

''Yes,  father!" 

"  And  you  dared  to  trifle  with  rae,  girl,  when  I  asked  you 
a  plain  question  ?"  and  Robert  Brand  grasped  his  daughter 
by  the  arm  so  forcibh'  that  she  nearly  screamed  with  the 
violent  pressure,  and  tears  did  indeed  start  to  her  eyes  as 
she  sobbed  out — 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  trifle  with  you,  father.  I  only 
thought — " 

"  You  thought  that  when  I  asked  one  question,  I  meant 
another,  did  3'ou  ?"  and  the  face  that  looked  upon  her  was 
set,  hard  and  very  stern.  "You  had  better  not  try  the  ex- 
periment again,  if  you  do  not  wish  to  suffer  for  it  !" 

"Oh,  father!"  and  the  young  girl,  enough  broken  before, 
now  wept  outright.     But  he  stopped  her,  very  roughly. 

"No  bawling  !  not  a  whimper  !  Now  listen  to  me.  You 
have  seen  your  brother  since  morning — since  he  went  down 
to  the  rendezvous." 

"Yes,  father." 

"  You  saw  him  at  Mrs.  Hayley's." 

"Yes,  father." 

"And  he  came  there  to  bid  Margaret  good-bye,  before  he 
went  away,  and  you  are  such  a  miserable  whining  school- 
girl that  you  are  making  all  this  fuss  about  his  absence.  Is 
that  the  fact  ?  Speak  I"  He  still  held  her  arm,  tliough  his 
grasp  was  less  painful  than  it  had  been  at  first;  and  his  eyes 
looked  upon  her  with  such  a  steady,  anxious,  almost  fearful 


THE      COWAPvD.  97 

pazo,  that  it  would  have  driven  away  the  second  temptation 
to  falsehood,  even  had  such  a  temptation  once  obtained  power. 
There  was  nothing  for  it,  at  that  moment,  but  to  speak  the 
truth  so  far  as  compelled. 

"  iS"o,"father.  Carlton  is  not  going  away."  The  last  three 
words  were  uttered  so  low,  and  so  tangled  up  among  the 
sobs  that  she  had  not  been  able  entirely  to  check,  that  they 
might  not  have  been  distinguishable  except  to  the  preter- 
naturally  acute  ear  of  the  suspicious  father, 

"  He  is  not  going  ?  Why  ?"  The  first  words  were  harsh 
and  loud — the  last  one  was  almost  thunder,  easily  heard,  if 
any  one  was  listening^  over  the  whole  house.  Before  it  the 
young  girl  shook  like  an  aspen  and  broke  out  into  fresh  sobs 
as  she  attempted  to  answer. 

"  Because — because  his  business  will  not  allow — " 

"Because  he  is  a  coward!  Answer  me  that  question,  girl, 
or  never  speak  to  me  again  while  3"ou  live  !"  Robert  Brand 
had  apparently  forgotten  all  his  pain  and  risen  from  his  chair, 
still  holding  his  daughter's  arm,  as  he  hurled  out  the  interro- 
gation and  the  threat.  Poor  Elsie  saw  that  he  knew  all,  too 
surely ;  further  dissembling  was  useless ;  and  she  dropped 
upon  her  knees,  that  iron  grasp  still  upon  her  arm,  lifted  up 
both  her  hands,  and  piteously  moaned — 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  reason  !  Oh,  how  did  you  hear  it  ? 
Kill  me,  father,  if  you  will,  but  do  not  kill  poor  Carlton  ! 
He  cannot  help  it — indeed  he  cannot !" 

They  were  fearful  words  that  immediately  thereafter  fell 
from  the  lips  of  Robert  Brand — words  that  no  provocation 
should  ever  tempt  a  father  to  utter,  but  words  which  have 
been  plentifully  showered  on  the  heads  of  the  shamed  or  the 
disobedient,  by  the  thoughtless  or  the  unmerciful,  who  arro- 
gated to  themselves  God's  power  of  judgment  and  retribu- 
tion, througkall  the  long  ages. 

"  Get  up,  girl,  if  you  do  not  wish  me  to  forget  that  you  are 
not  yourself  the  miserable  hound  for  whom  you  are  plead- 
ing' !" 


98  THECOWARD. 

"  Oh,  father  !"  broke  again  from  tlie  lips  of  the  frightened 
girl,  who  did  not  move  from  hor  kneeling  position. 

"  Get  up,  I  say,  or  I  will  strike  you  with  this  cane  as  I 
would  a  dog  !" 

Elsie  Brand  staggered  to  her  feet,  she  knew  not  how,  but 
stood  bowed  before  the  stern  judge  in  an  attitude  of  pleading 
quite  as  humble  and  pitiful  as  that  of  prayer.  The  next 
words  that  fell  upon  her  ears  were  not  addressed  to  her,  but 
seemed  to  be  spoken  for  others'  hearing  than  those  who 
dwell  in  tenements  of  clay,  while  the  voice  that  uttered  them 
trembled  in  mingled  grief  and  indignation,  and  the  disabled 
frame  shook  as  if  it  had  been  racked  with  palsy. 

"jl///  son  a  coward  I  a  miserable  poltroon  to  be  pointed  at, 
spat  upon,  and  whipped  !  My  blood  made  a  shame  in  the 
land,  by  the  one  whom  I  trusted  to  honor  it !  God's  blackest 
and  deepest  curse — " 

"  Oh,  father  !  father  !"  broke  in  the  young  girl  in  a  very 
wail  of  agony  so  pitiful  that  it  must  have  moved  any  heart 
not  calloused  for  the  moment  against  all  natural  feeling,  but 
that  availed  nothing  to  stop  the  impending  curse  or  even  to 
lower  the  voice  that  uttered  it. 

"  — God's  deepest  and  blackest  curse  'light  upon  the  coward  I 
shame,  sorrow,  and  quick  death  !  He  shall  have  neither 
house,  home  nor  family  from  this  moment !  I  disown  this 
bastard  of  my  blood  !  I  devote  him  to  ruin  and  to  per- 
dition !" 

Few  -men  have  ever  uttered,  over  the  most  criminal  and 
degraded  of  the  offspring  of  their  own  loins,  so  dire  an  im- 
precation ;  and  no  father,  who  has  ever  uttered  one  approach- 
ing it  in  horrible  earnest,  but  is  doomed  here  or  hereafter  to 
feel  the  bitterest  weight  of  that  curse  resting  upon  his  own 
head.  Lear  was  clean  distraught  by  wrongs  beyond  human 
endurance,  before  he  called  upon  "all  the  stored  veftgeances 
of  heaven"  to  fall  on  the  "  ingrateful  top"  of  iKronePIl,  and 
hreatcned  both  his  unnatural  daughters  with  "  such  re- 
venges" that  they  should  be  the  "terrors  of  the  earth" ;  and 


THECOWARD.  99 

only  that  incipient  madness  clears  him  from  the  sin  and 
leaves  liim  human  to  demand  our  after  pity.  There  can  be 
no  excuse  for  such  paroxysms  of  remorseless  anger — it  is 
dillieult  to  supply  even  a  palliation.  And  yet  there  was 
somethini?  in  the  blood,  in  the  past  life  and  associations  of 
Robert  Brand,  coming  as  near  to  offering  excuse  for  shame 
and  indignation  driving  to  temporary  madness,  as  could  well 
have  been  offered  in  behalf  of  any  man  of  his  day,  commit- 
ting a  sin  of  such  nature.  And  to  circumstances  embodying 
these  it  is  now  necessary  to  revert,  even  at  the  expense  of  a 
temporary  pause  in  the  directness  of  this  narration. 


CHAPTER  Y. 
The  Btrth  and  Blood  of  the  Brands-^Prtde  that  came 

DOWN    FROM    THE    CrUSADES ROBERT    BrAND    AS    SOLDIER 

AND  Pension-Agent — The  Pensioners  of  the  Revolu- 
tion— How  Elsie  rayed,  and  how  the  Father's  Curse 

SEEMED    to    be    ANSWERED — Dr.   JaMES    HoLTON,    AND    THE 

LOSS  OF  A  Corpus  Delicti. 

It  has  already  been  indicated,  in  speaking  of  the  ties  which 
bound  Elspeth  Graeme  to  the  Brand  family,  that  they  were 
Scots  by  descent  as  she  was  by  both  blood  and  birth.  Robert 
Brand  himself  stood  in  the  fourth  remove  from  Gaelic  nativ- 
ity, without  the  spirit  of  his  race  being  extinct  or  even  mod- 
ified. When  Archibald  Alexander,  father  of  that  William 
Alexander  who  claimed  to  be  Earl  of  Stirling  in  the  peerage 
of  Scotland  while  he  was  gallantly  fighting  as  a  Major-Gen- 
eral in  the  patriot  army  of  the  Revolution,  came  to  America 
in  1*140,  he  was  accompanied  by  a  man  who  claimed  to  hold 
quite  as  good  blood  as  himself,  though  he  served  in  little  less 
than  a  menial  capacity  to  the  heir  of  the  attainted  house  of 


100  THE      COWARD. 

Stirlin.G:.  This  was  Malcolm  Brand,  of  Perthshire,  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Scottish  and  elder  branch  of  the  Brands  of  Hert- 
fordshire in  England,  who  at  a  later  day  carried  the  two 
crossed  swords  which  they  had  borne  on  their  shields  since 
the  Crusades,  to  augment  the  threatening  bulls,  wolves  and 
leopards  of  the  Dacres,  in  the  possession  of  that  barony.  It 
was  in  a  victorious  hand-to-hand  fight  with  a  gigantic  Sara- 
cen ou  the  field  of  Askalon,  that  Gawin  de  Brande,  laird  of 
Westenro  in  Lothian,  fighting  close  beside  King  Richard, 
won  that  proud  quartering  of  arms ;  and  it  is  to  be  believed 
that  no  descendant  of  his  blood,  either  in  1740  or  in  1863, 
liad  quite  forgotten  that  exploit  or  the  fact  that  the  very 
name  of  the  family  was  only  another  antique  appellation  for 
the  sword. 

Malcolm  Brand,  the  emigrant,  was  the  father  of  a  sou 
Robert,  born  in  Xew  Jersey,  as  Archibald  Alexander  was 
the  sire  of  William,  who  so  proudly  outdid  the  exploits  of 
his  elder  blood,  fighting  under  the  leadership  of  Washington. 
The  two  young  men,  resident  nearly  together  among  the 
Kew  Jersey  hills,  entered  the  army  at  the  same  time,  and 
while  the  one  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  Major-General,  the 
other  shared  in  his  combats  at  Long  Island,  Germantow^n 
and  Monmouth,  always  fighting  gallantly,  but  never  rising 
beyond  the  grade  of  a  first-lieutenant,  and  dying  at  last  a 
prisoner  on  one  of  the  pest-ships  of  the  Wallabout.  His 
son  William,  named  after  Lord  Stirling  and  born  in  1768, 
had  of  course  passed  as  a  boy  through  the  trying  period  of 
the  great  contest,  known  that  identification  with  the  patriot 
cause  inevital>le  from  anxiety  for  a  father  engaged  in  it  and 
grief  over  his  lingering  death  by  disease  and  privation  for 
its  sake  ;  and  it  could  not  be  otherwise  than  that  the  ears  of 
/ji.s-  son,  Robert  (the  man  of  1863),  should  have  been  filled 
with  relations  calculated  at  once  to  keep  'SWfe  the  pride  of 
bis  blood  and  to  identify  him  with  the  glory  and  honor  of  the 
land  in  which  his  lot  had  been  cast. 

Theu  had   come   another   influence,  not  less   potent — the 


THE      COWAKl).  101 

second  breaking-out  of  hostilities  against  England,  in  the  War 
pf  1812.  The  blood  of  the  Brands  was  not  cooled — it  sprung 
to  arms  ;  and  Robert  Brand,  then  a  young  lawyer,  taking  the 
place  of  his  father  already  invalided,  assumed  the  sword  of 
his  armorial  bearings  and  ibught  with  Scott  at  Chippewa  and 
Lundy's  Lane,  receiving  so  terrible  an  injury  in  the  leg,  at 
the  close  of  the  latter  battle,  that  he  was  to  be  a  tortured 
cripple  from  that  day  forward,  but  glorying  even  in  the  dis- 
ablement and  the  suffering,  because  his  injury  had  not  been 
met  in  some  trivial  accident  of  peaceful  life,  but  sustained 
where  brave  men  dared  their  doom. 

And  yet  another  influence,  not  less  potent,  was  still  to 
come.  Years  after,  when  Carlton  Brand  was  a  child  in  arms, 
his  father,  then  a  practising  lawyer  in  his  native  State,  be- 
came identified  with  that  most  romantic  and  most  picturesque 
body  of  men,  of  whom  the  present  age  remembers  but  little, 
and  of  whom  the  age  to  come  will  know  nothing  except  as 
the  knowledge  is  handed  down  from  father  to  son,  or  carried 
forward  in  such  desultory  records  as  these — The  Penaioners 
of  the  Revolution.  At  that  time,  not  less  on  account  of  his 
spotless  reputation  than  the  crippling  wound  received  in  the 
service,  he  was  appointed  Pension  Agent  for  the  section  ia 
which  he  resided,  and  duly  commissioned  twice  a  year  to  re- 
ceive from  the  War  Department  and  pay  over  to  the  old  men 
the  somewhat  scant  and  very  tardy  pay  with  which  the  land 
of  Washington  at  last  smoothed  the  passage  to  the  grave  of 
those  who  had  been  his  companions. 

It  was  Robert  Brand's  privilege,  then,  to  meet  those  men 
in  the  familiar  intercourse  of  business — to  listen  to  their  tales, 
so  often  slighted  by  those  wiser  or  less  reverent,  of  foughton 
field  and  toilsome  march,  of  cheerless  camp  and  suffering  in 
tiie  wilderness,  when  this  giant  nation  was  a  wnlful  child  un- 
justly scourged  by  a  tyrant  mother — to  find  in  each  some 
reminder  of  his  patriot  grandfather,  and  some  suggestion  of 
what  that  grandfather  would  have  been  had  the  fortune  of 
war  spared  him  to  go  down  into  old  age  and  senility. 


102  THE      COWARD. 

Twice  a  year,  as  the  pension  day  came  round,  one  by  one 
they  gathered  in  the  little  room  where  the  scanty  pension 
was  to  be  doled — each  with  the  measured  beat  of  his  stick 
sounding  upon  the  floor  as  he  entered,  regularly  as  when  his 
foot  had  beaten  time  in'^the  olden  days,  under  the  iron  rain 
of  Princeton,  or  on  the  suffering  march  to  Valley  Forge.  One 
by  one  they  gathered  to  what  was  their  great  semi-annual 
holiday,  with  the  kindly  greetings  of  garrulous  and  failing 
age — with  the  gentle  complaint,  so  patiently  uttered,  over 
limbs  that  seemed  to  be  bowing  with  the  weight  of  time,  and 
with  the  pardonable  boast  that  it  was  not  so  when  the  speaker 
had  been  young,  in  such  a  winter  on  the  Xorthern  Lines,  or 
with  such  an  officer  at  Yorktown  or  Saratoga.  When  the 
winters — said  they — were  colder  than  they  are  now,  when  the 
men  were  hardier,  and  when  the  women  (they  had  all  long  before 
gone  to  rest,  in  the  family  graveyard  or  the  little  plat  beside 
the  church,)  were  fairer  far  than  their  daughters  ever  grew  I 

Harmless  deception  of  age  ! — pleasant  coloring  that  dis- 
tance gives  in  time  as  well  as  in  the  material  world,  so  that 
the  forms  we  once  loved  may  be  even  more  beautiful  in 
thought  than  they  were  in  reality  ;  the  grassy  law^ns  upon 
which  we  played  in  childhood,  greener  far  in  memory  than 
they  ever  were  beneath  the  sun  of  June  ;  and  even  those  hours 
once  filled  with  anxiety  and  vexation,  so  beguiled  out  of  their 
uncomely  features,  that  they  have  no  power  to  harm  us  in 
after-thought,  and  almost  seem  to  have  been  freighted  with 
unalloyed  happiness  !  There  may  have  been  a  thunder-cloud 
rising  in  the  heavens,  that  afternoon  when  we  went  boating 
with  Harry  and  Tom  and  Mary  and  Susan  and  Alice,  all  the 
way  down  from  Lovers'  Bend  to  the  Isle  of  Kisses,  with 
music,  and  laughter  and  loving  words  that  were  sweeter  far 
than  song ;  and  the  thunder-cloud  may  have  thickened  and 
gathered,  so  that  the  young  lovers  were  drenched  afid  very 
dismal-looking,  long  before  their  return  at  evening;  but  be 
sure  that  forty  years  after,  when  the  day  is  remembered,  only 
the  sunshine,  the  smiling  faces  and  the  flashing  water  is  seen, 


T  JI  E      COWARD.  103 

and  if  the  thunder-storm  has  a  place  in  niemor}'  at  all,  it  comes 
back  more  as  a  pleasure  than  a  disappointment.  Mary  may 
have  had  a  cloud  upon  her  brow,^that  evening  at  the  garden- 
gate,  from  the  absence  of  a  ribbon  lightly  promised,  or  the 
presence  of  a  recollection  how  some  one  flirted  with  Julia  on 
the  evening  before  ;  and  there  may  even  have  been  a  tiff 
verging  far  towards  a  lover's  quarrel,  before  the  reconciliation 
and  the  parting  under  tJie  moon  ;  but  when  the  hair  has 
grown  gray,  and  Mary  is  with  the  millions  sleeping  in  the 
bnnist  of  our  common  mother,  only  the  moonlight,  that  dear 
last  kiss,  and  the  rapture  of  happy  love  are  remembered,  and 
that  checkered  hour  is  looked  back  upon  as  one  of  unmixed 
enjoyment.  Time  is  the  flatterer  of  memory,  as  well  as  the 
consoler  of  grief,  and  perhaps  has  no  holier  office.  So  it  w^as 
well  that  the  old  men's  mental  eyes  were  dim  when  their 
physical  vision  was  failing;  and  when  we  grow  old  as  they, 
if  the  scythe  of  the  destroj^er  cut  us  not  away  long  before, 
may  the  far-away  past  be  gilded  for  us  as  it  was  for  them,  by 
the  rosy  hue  of  fading  remembrance,  until  all  the  asperities, 
the  hard  realities,  the  sharp  and  salient  edges  and  angles  of 
life,  are  smoothed  and  worn  away  forever  ! 

Sitting  side  by  side,  they  talked — those  bent  and  worn  and 
gray  old  men — of  scenes  long  matters  of  honored  history, 
glorying  (ah  I  honest  and  natural  glory  !)  in  having  stood 
guard  at  the  tent  of  Wayne,  or  shared  the  coarse  fare  of 
Sumter  in  the  Southern  woods,  but  most  of  all  if  happily  the 
eye  of  Washington  had  chanced  to  beam  upon  them,  and  his 
lips  (those  lips  that  seldom  broadly  smiled)  approved  or 
thanked  their  honest  service.  Few  men,  even  of  those  who 
fought  beside  him,  seemed  ever  to  have  known  a  smile  from 
the  Father  of  his  Country  ;  but  for  those  few  there  always 
beamed  a  light  of  glorious  memory  to  which  the  all-repaying 
word  and  the  intoxicating  smile  of  the  Great  Corsican  would 
have  been  empty  and  valueless. 

It  was  easy,  twenty  or  thirty  years  afterwards,  to  remem- 
ber the  fire  that  blazed  in  the  dim  eyes  of  old  Job  Marstou,  as 


1U4  THE       CUWAKD. 

he  told  how  "Washington  conimended  him  for  his  good  conduct 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  dreadful  day  of  Long  Island,  when 
Sullivan's  legion  broke  and  fled  like  frightened  sheep, — and 
how  the  veteran  straightened  himself  upon  his  staff  as  if  the 
head  which  had  once  borne  the  praise  of  the  Joshua  of  Ameri- 
can Liberty  should  scarcely  bend  even  to  time.  Or  the  quiver- 
ing of  the  hand  of  Walter  Thome,  one  of  the  men  who  bore, 
through  every  trial  and  danger,  the  pledge  of  faith  of  the 
Monmouth  League — quivering  yet  with  the  anger  which  had 
brooded  ft)r  more  than  fifty  years, — as  he  pictured  so  plainly 
the  burning  of  his  fathers  house  by  the  Refugees,  the  acres 
of  broad  land  laid  waste  by  them,  the  cattle  driven  towards 
the  royal  lines  from  his  own  homestead,  the  arming  of  his 
friends,  the  chase,  the  recapture,  and  the  ghastly  figure  of  the 
Refugee  captain  as  they  hung  him  on  a  spreading  limb  that 
spanned  the  road,  a  sacrifice  not  only  for  the  home  in  ashes 
but  to  the  manes  of  Captain  Huddy,  scarcely  yet  taken  dowa 
from  his  oak-tree  gallows  on  the  heights  of  Xavesink.  Or  the 
quietly  felicitous  chuckle  with  which  Stephen  Holmes,  who 
had  been  one  of  "  Captain  Huyler's  men"  in  the  operations 
of  that  patriot  marine  freebooter  around  the  shores  of  the 
lower  bay  of  Xew  York,  detailed  the  success  of  a  night  attack 
in  boats  pretending  to  carry  live-stock  and  oysters  for  sale,  by 
which  one  vessel  of  the  British  fleet  lying  in  the  bay  was  cap- 
tured, much  welcome  spoil  fell  into  their  hands  for  the  use  of 
needy  families  at  home,  and  all  the  remaining  vessels  of  tho 
squadron  rode  uncomfortablv  in  the  bay  for  a  long  time  after. 
Or  the  half  playful  and  half  indignant  raising  of  the  cane  of 
Robert  Grey,  when  told  by  his  old  companions,  for  the  five- 
hundredth  time  beyond  a  doubt,  that  he  was  suspected  of  a 
tihare  in  ArnoUVs  treason,  for  not  stopping  the  disguised 
Andre  as  he  passed  his  sentinel  post  below  West  Point, 
before  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  three  very  common 
and  insignificant  men  made  immortal  by  one  single  act- 
Williams,  Paulding  and  Yan  "Wert.  There  would  have  been 
no  pretence  in  the  motion,  spite  of  his  eighty  years  and 


T  H  b]       U  O  W  A  K  D.  105 

faltering  limbs,  had  the  speaker  hazar.led  more  than  a  jest 
ai::ainst  the  laitht'uhiess  of  the  old  man's  service  iu  the  '*  darlc 
dav."  But  easiest  of  all  was  it  to  remember  the  story  of 
Thomas  West,  wounded,  and  erii)pled  from  that  day  forth,  iu 
assisting  to  bear  the  w^ouuded  Lafayette  from  the  field  of 
Brandy  wine,  and  named  a  subaltern  otiicer  at  the  close  of  that 
memorable  action.  His  \vas  the  seat  of  honor  ;  and  his  was 
something  more,  even,  than  that  measure  of  respect  demanded 
bv  all  and  so  cheerfully  paid  to  white  hairs  and  honorable 
scars. 

Seldom  was  there  a  voice  to  speak  one  word  of  disrespect 
or  undervaluation  in  the  old  men's  company;  and  though  the 
privilege  of  garrulous  and  failing  age  was  often  taken,  and 
though  the  story  once  full  of  life  and  interest  grew  sadly 
tedious  when  again  and  again  repeated, — yet  there  was  no 
pardon,  and  deserved  to  be  none,  for  him  who  forgot  that 
reverence  due  to  the  men  who  bore  the  last  personal  recol- 
lections of  the  seven-years  war.  Only  once,  within  ihe  ex- 
perience of  Robert  Brand  as  a  Pension  Agent,  was  such  dis- 
respect shown  ;  and  then  the  punishment  was  so  signal  that 
there  were  no  fears  of  the  impropriety  being  repeated.  Mart 
Tunison,  a  wealthy  young  landowner,  rudely  jostled  old  Job 
Marston  on  one  occasion,  and  when  called  to  account  for  the 
offence,  snapped  his  fingers  at  the  veteran  as  a  "cursed  old 
humbug,  always  in  the  way  and  always  telling  stories  of  bat- 
tles he  had  never  seen."  "You  are  rich,  they  say,  Mart 
Tunison,"  said  the  old  man,  while  the  younger  one  could  not 
read  the  flash  that  still  lived  in  his  faded  eye.  "  I  nm  rich, 
and  what  is  that  to  you,  grand-daddy  V  was  the  nnswor, 
with  a  slap  of  the  hand  on  the  jingling  pocket.  "  Yes,  you 
are  rich,  and  most  people  do  not  know  how  you  became  so!" 
almost  hissed  the  old  man,  little  knowing  how  he  was  point- 
ing a  moral  for  a  future  day  by  speaking  of  the  "shoddy"  oT 
that  bygone  time.  "1  will  tell  all  your  friends,  and  you, 
how  you  got  so  stuffed  up  that  you  can  snap  your  fingers  in 
uu  old  man's  face  !     You  are  living  on  the  proceeds  of  tho 


106  THE      COWARD. 

money  that  your  Tory  G:randfathor,  old  Tom  Tunij^on,  made 
by  stealing  cattle,  when  he  was  one  of  the  Refugee  Cow-Boys, 
and  driving  them  over  the  lines  to  sell  to  the  British,  before 
he  ran  away  to  Nova  Scotia  to  save  his  neck  !"  ^lart 
Tunison,  if  he  had  ever  before  known  the  real  origin  of  his 
wealth,  which  is  doubtful, — would  probably  have  given  the 
best  field  of  all  his  broad  lands  to  prevent  that  revelation  of 
the  shame  of  his  family,  which  afterwards  followed  him  iike 
a  thing  of  ill-omen,  to  the  very  grave  ! 

There  was  at  that  time  in  the  office  of  Robert  Brand,  a 
stripling  youngster  who  promised  very  little  good  to  the  world 
and  has  probably  as  yet  disappointed  no  one — who  thought 
more  of  play  than  of  work,  of  music  than  of  mortgages,  of 
Burns  than  Blackstone,  and  of  a  rosy-cheeked  girl  who  came 
into  the  office  on  some  little  errand  to  the  "  'Squire"  than  of 
the  most  proud  and  stately  of  his  male  clients.  Among  his 
vices,  he  had  a  fancy  for  jingling  verse  ;  and  one  day  when  the 
semi-annual  visit  of  the  pensioners  had  just  terminated  and 
be  had  listened  afresh  to  the  same  old  tales  of  glory  told  over 
again  in  the  same  faltering  accents  that  he  had  heard  so 
many  times  before,  his  one  virtue  of  reverence  for  the  aged 
and  the  venerable  rose  into  an  idle  rhyme,  which  ma}^  have 
3  fit  place  in  this  connection,  and  which  he  called 

THE   PENSIONERS. 
They  come  but  twice  a  year, 

When  the  pension-day  rolls  round, — 
Old  men  with  hoary  hair 

And  their  faces  to  the  ground. 
One  leans  upon  his  crutch  ; 

And  one  is  upright  still. 
As  if  he  bore  Time's  clutch 

With  an  iron  nerve  and  will. 

And  feeble  are  the  steps 

That  so  patiently  they  feel  ; 
And  they  kiss  with  trembling  lips 

The  old  Bible  and  the  seal ; 


THE      COWARD.  lij] 

And  they  lay  witli  care  away, 

In  wallets  old  and  worn, 
The  scant  and  tardy  pay 

Of  a  life  of  toil  and  scorn. 

They  love  a  cheerful  pipe 

And  a  warm  place  in  the  sun. 
From  an  age  so  old  and  ripe 

To  call  memories  one  by  one  ; — 
To  tell  of  Arnold's  crime, 

And  of  Washington's  proud  form 
That  beamed,  in  battle  time, 

A  beacon  o'er  the  storm. — 

To  tell  of  Yorktown's  day. 

When  the  closing  light  was  gained, — 
When  Coruwallis  went  away 

And  the  eagle  was  unchained  ; 
To  show  us,  o'er  and  o'er, 

The  seamed  and  withered  scars 
That  many  a  hero  bore. 

As  his  passport  from  the  wars. 

'Tis  pride,  with  these  old  men, 

To  tell  what  they  have  seen, 
Of  battle-fields,  again 

With  their  harvest  bi-ight  and  green: 
'Twill  be  pride,  when  we  are  old, 

To  say  that  in  our  youth 
We  heard  the  tales  they  told 

And  looked  on  them  in  their  truth. 

They  are  the  last  sad  link 

Of  a  race  of  men  with  ours. 
Who  stood  on  ruin's  brink 

And  built  up  fair  freedom's  towers. 
They  are  passing,  as  the  foam 

From  the  ocean  wave  departs, 
But  finding  yet  a  home 

In  heaven,  and  in  our  hearts. 


108  THE      COW  A  11  D . 

And  when  the  last  is  gone, 

'i  o  their  memory  we  will  build 
A  pyramid  of  stone 

Whose  top  the  sun  shall  gild 
When  the  name  of  patiiot  weal 

And  of  tyrants'  hitter  wrong 
Shall  be  told  but  in  a  tale 

And  known  but  in  a  song. 

The  time  then  prophesied  lias  come  ;  though  the  monument 
then  promised  has  not  been  erected,  and  though  it  may  never 
be,  because  a  later  and  grander  though  scarce  nobler  struggle 
to  preserve  what  v^^as  then  first  created,  almost  dwarfs  the 
memory  of  the  first  contest  and  demands  all  the  resources  of 
wealth  and  art  for  its  commemoration.  The  Pensioners  of 
the  Revolution  are  all  gone,  long  ago,  on  the  line  of  march  to 
that  great  meeting  where  the  last  pension,  whether  of  good 
or  evil,  shall  be  told  cut. 

Almost  every  year,  beneath  the  eye  of  the  Pension  Agent, 
one  more  withered  leaf  would  drop  from  the  bough  where  it 
had  feebly  fluttered,  and  sad  comments  be  made  by  the  sur- 
vivors when  they  met,  with:  "Ah,  well-a-day ! — poor is 

gone  !"  and  "  Well,  we  are  very  old,  and  we  must  all  follow 
him — some  day!"  with  nervous  shakings  of  the  head  and 
tremblings  of  the  palsied  hand,  that  told  to  all  but  themselves 
how  soon  the  end  must  come.  Thinner  and  thinner  grew  the 
group,  reduced  to  six — to  four — to  three — to  two  !  Oh,  that 
sad,  mournful,  heart-breaking  two  ! — enough  gone  to  mark 
the  coming  extinction  ;  enough  still  left  to  hold  their  melan- 
choly converse  !  And  then  one  day  there  came  but  one,  who 
looked  vacantly  round  on  the  empty  space  and  seemed  to 
remem1)er  that  others  than  himself  must  once  have  lieeu 
there,  but  to  remember  no  more.  The  "Last  Man"  had  not 
then  been  written,  and  Geoff nj  Dale  was  yet  to  spring  from 
the  imagination  or  the  memory  of  the  dramatist  and  supply 
poor  f/cs-.sv  Enrol  Blake  with  one  of  bis  best  opportunities  for 
throat-choking  pathos ;  but  in  the  last  of  the  pensioners  bis 


THE      COWARD.  109 

history  was  sadly  prefigured.  One  other  lonely  visit,  and 
tlioii  the  survivor  was  gone.  All  the  group  had  dropped 
away.  Tiieir  forms  seemed  to  linger,  long  after  the  forms 
that  cast  them  had  mouldered  into  inipalpable  dust.  It  was 
the  most  natural  thing  in  life  for  Robert  Brand,  months  and 
even  years  after,  to  turn  when  hearing  the  measured  beat  of 
an  old  man's  cane  upon  the  floor,  and  look  to  see  if  the 
comer  was  not  one  of  the  veterans  of  Yorktown  or  of  Trenton, 
yet  lingering  far  behind  the  time  of  his  companions.  But  no 
— death  had  come  to  all,  and  as  yet  no  resurrection.  The 
last  pittance  had  been  paid  them,  and  laid  away  for  the  last 
time  by  their  careful  fingers ;  and  they,  too,  had  been  laid 
away  by  the  hoarding  miser  of  human  forms,  in  quiet  graves 
in  those  humble  country  church-yards  dotting  the  bosom  of 
that  land  which  they  had  helped  to  free  and  to  cover  with 
human  glory  ! 

Perhaps  they  died  in  good  time — before  the  dark  hour  came 
back  again  after  a  glorious  morning  and  a  cloudless  noon. 
Perhaps  it  is  well  that  the  last  of  the  Revolutionary  veterans 
had  passed  beyond  acute  pain  and  heart-felt  shame,  before 
the  attempt  at  national  suicide  came  to  embitter  their  last 
moments  with  the  belief  that  after  all  they  might  have 
labored  and  suffered  in  vain.  But  their  memory  does  not  die. 
Mecca  and  Jerusalem  are  blended  in  the  sacredness  of  that 
pilgrimage  which  the  reverent  heart  travels  back  through  the 
years  to  pay  them  ;  and  if  there  is  yet  a  leaven  of  self-sacri- 
ficing devotion  in  our  national  character  sufficient  to  bear  us 
on  triumphantly  to  the  great  end,  the  yeast  of  true  patriotism 
from  which  it  is  made  was  preserved  through  the  long  night 
of  corruption  and  misrule,  in  the  breasts  of  the  Fathers  of  the 
Republic. 

Their  children  have  long  been  old  men  now.  Their  very 
grandchildren  begin  to  show  gray  hairs.  Following  close 
upon  the  steps  of  the  Last  Man  of  the  Revolution — the  last 
of  the  men  who  could  say  that  they  saw  and  took  part  in  that 
throe  which  gave  birth  to  a  nation, — tread  all  those  who  can 


110  THE      COWARD. 

even  say  that  they  ever  saw  them  and  took  them  by  the 
hand.  A  few  years,  and  the  last  of. these,  too,  will  be  quiet 
and  voiceless.  The  chain  of  personal  recollection  is  growing 
thin, — it  may  break  to-morrow  ;  and  "  the  rest  is  silence." 

Such  was  the  blood  of  Robert  Brand,  and  such  had  been 
the  influences  and  surroundings  of  his  earlier  life — himself  a 
soldier  when  in  possession  of  health  and  vigor,  and  the  com- 
panion, friend  and  guardian  of  the  noblest  of  all  American 
soldiery  when  he  became  disabled  and  inactive.  He  loved 
bis  native  land  with  an  idolatry  bordering  on  insanity;  and 
during  the  long  struggle  between  the  interests  of  the  sections, 
preceding  the  war,  he  had  imbibed  love  of  free  institutions 
and  hatred  of  slavery  to  a  degree  little  less  than  fanatical.  No 
regret  had  weighed  so  heavily  upon  him,  when  the  note 
of  conflict  sounded  in  18G1,  as  the  fact  that  his  aged  and 
crippled  frame  must  prevent  his  striking  one  blow  in  a  cause 
so  holy;  and  if  he  held  one  pride  more  dearly  than  another, 
it  was  to  be  found  in  the  remembrance  that  he  had  a  noble 
and  gallant  son,  too  busy  and  too  much  needed  at  home,  thus 
far,  to  join  the  ranks  of  his  country's  defenders  in  the  field, 
but  ready  when  the  day  of  positive  need  should  come,*to 
maintain  unsullied  the  honor  of  his  race.  What  marvel,  all 
these  surroundings  considered,  that  the  knowledge  of  that 
son  being  an  abject  poltroon  should  nearly  have  unseated  his 
reason,  and  that  he  should  have  uttered  words  which  only  the 
partial  insanity  of  wounded  pride  and  rankling  shame  could 
supply  with  any  shadow  of  excuse  ? 

At  the  close  of  the  last  chapter,  and  before  this  long  ex- 
planatory episode  intervened  to  break  the  progress  of  the 
narration,  Elsie  Brand,  the  agonized  sister  and  daughter,  was 
seen  standing  before  her  father,  with  hands  clasped  in  agony 
and  lips  uttering  agonized  pleadings.  But  the  very  instant 
after,  when  the  terrible  severity  of  that  parental  curse  had 
been  fully  rounded  from  the  lips  and  that  fatal  evidence  given 
that  for  the  moment  all  natural  affection  had  given  way  to  im- 
pious rage  and  denunciation, — the  young  girl  stood  erect,  her 


THE      COWARD.  Ill 

blue  eyes  still  tearful  but  flashing  ang'cr  of  which  they  eom- 
inouly  seemed  to  be  little  capable,  and  her  lips  utterinj^  words 
as  determined  as  those  of  the  madman,  even  if  they  were  less 
furious  and  vindictive  : 

"  You  may  strike  me  if  you  like,  but  I  do  not  care  for  you, 
now — not  one  ^nap  of  my  finger  I  You  are  not  my  father — • 
you  are  nobody's  father,  but  a  bad,  wicked,  unfeeling  old  man, 
gray  headed  enough  to  know  better,  and  yet  cursing  your  own 
flesh  and  blood  as  if  you  wished  to  go  to  perdition  yourself 
and  carry  everybody  else  along  with  you  I" 

The  very  audacity  of  this  speech  partially  sobered  the  en- 
raged man,  and  he  only  ejaculated  in  a  lower  but  still  angry 
tone  : 

"  What !" 

"What  I  say  and  what  I  mean  I"  the  young  girl  went  on, 
oblivious  or  heedless  of  any  parental  authority  at  the  moment. 
*'  I  do  not  love  you — I  hate  and  shudder  at  you  !  I  would 
rather  be  my  poor  brother,  a  coward  and  disgraced  as  he  may 
be,  than  his  miserable  father  cursing  him  like  a  brute  I" 

"  Do  you  dare "  the  father  began  to  say,  in    a  louder 

voice  and  with  the  thunder  again  threatening,  but  Elsie  Brand 
was  proving,  just  then,  that  the  gift  of  heedless  speech  "ran 
in  the  family,"  and  that  for  the  moment  she  "  had  the  floor" 
in  the  contest  of  denunciation. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  look  at  me  in  that  manner  !"  she  said, 
marking  the  expression  of  the  old  man's  eyes  and  conscious 
that  he  might  at  any  moment  recover  himself  sufficiently  to 
pour  out  upon  her,  for  her  unpardonable  impudence,  quite  as 
l)itler  a  denunciation  as  he  had  lately  vented  against  her  dis- 
graced brother.  "  I  am  not  afraid  of  your  eyes,  or  of  your 
tongue.  Y''ou  have  turned  Carlton  out  of  doors,  for  a  mere 
nothing,  and  I  am  going  with  him,  I  will  never  set  foot  in 
tbis  house  again,  never,  until " 

llow  long  was  the  period  the  indignant  girl  intended  to 
set  for  her  absence,  must  ever  remain  in  doubt,  with  many 
other  things  of  much   more  consequence ;  for  the  sentence 


112  THECOTTARB. 

thus  begun,  was  never  eompletecl.  In  at  the  open  front 
door,  through  the  parlor  and  into  the  room  of  the  invalid,  at 
tiiat  moment  staggered  Kitty  Hood.  Tiie  phrase  descriptive 
of  her  movement  is  used  advisedly  and  with  good  reason  ;  for 
fright,  exhaustion  and  the  terrible  heat  of  the  June  meridian 
had  reduced  the  young  school-mistress  to  a  most  pitiable  con- 
dition. Her  face  was  one  red  glow,  her  brow  streamed  with 
perspiration,  and  she  was  equally  destitute  of  strength  and 
out  of  breath. 

This  strange  and  unannounced  interruption  naturally  broke 
the  unpleasant  chain  of  conversation  between  father  and 
daughter;  and  the  eyes  of  both,  during  her  moment  of  en- 
forced silence  to  recover  breath,  looked  upon  her  with  equal 
wonder  and  alarm. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Brand  !"  and  here  the  breath  gave  out  again 
and  she  sank  exhausted  into  the  chair  which  Elsie  pushed  up 
to  her. 

"You  are  sick?  Somebody  has  insulted  or  hurt  you? 
What  is  the  matter,  Kitty  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !"  at  last  the  school-mistress  mustered  breath  to 
say,  at  short,  jerky  intervals.  "  Nothing  ails  me,  except  that 
I  am  out  of  breath  ;  but  your  son,  Mr.  Brand." 

^"Well,  what  of  him?"  asked  the  old  man,  his  tone  sharp 
and  angry  and  his  brow  frowning,  confident  that  the  coming 
information  must  have  some  connection  with  the  disgraceful 
report  of  the  morning — that  Kitty  Hood  had  only  run  herself 
out  of  breath  in  her  anxiety  to  tell  his  family  unwelcome  news 
that  they  already  knew  too  well. 

"  Oh,  sir,  Mr.  Carlton — your  poor  brother,  Elsie  ! — is  dead  !" 

"  Dead  !"  The  word  had  two  echoes — one,  from  the  lips 
of  Robert  Brand,  little  else  than  a  groan  ;  and  the  other 
from  poor  tortured  Elsie,  compounded  between  groan  and 
shriek. 

**  Oh,  yes,  how  can  I  tell  it  ?"  the  young  school-mistress 
went  on,  as  fast  as  her  broken  breath  would  allow.  "  I  found 
tiim  lying  dead,  only  a  little  while  ago,  by  the  gate,  down  at 


r  II  K     CO  \v  A  n  ]).  1 1;; 

tho  blind-rond,  a.s  I  raine  across  from  scliool  ;  ami  I  Iiin»'  run 
all  \Uo  way  liere  to  toll  vou  !'' 

"  Mv  })oor  brotlu'r  dead!  oli,  Carlton!"  moaned  Elsie 
IJrand  ;  then,  but  an  instant  after,  and  before  the  old  man 
had  fonnd  time  to  speak  ag-ain,  the  curse  came  up  in  connee- 
tion  with  tiie  bereavement  and  she  broke  out,  hysterically: 
"  See  what  you  have  done,  father  !  You  wished  poor  Carlton 
dead,  and  now  you  have  your  cruel  wish  !  Oh,  my  poor, 
poor  brother  !" 

"  Silence,  girl  !"  s])oke  Robert  ]5rand,  sharply,  with  a  not 
unnatural  dislike  to  have  the  school-mistress  made  aware  of 
what  had  so  lately  passed.  Tiie  old  man  was  terribly 
nil'ected,  but  he  managed  to  contral  himself  and  to  speak  with 
some  approach  to  calmness. 

"  You  are  sure,  Kitty,  that  yon  saw  my  son  lying  dead  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Brand,  he  was  l\nng  dead  on  the  grass  close 
by  the  gate." 

"  Lying  alone  ?"  The  voice  of  the  father  trembled,  in 
spite  of  himself,  as  he  asked  the  question. 

"  All  alone,  and  he  could  only  have  been  dead  a  few 
moments.     He  looked  so." 

"  Was  there — "  and  the  old  lawyer  tried  to  steady  his 
voice  as  he  had  many  a  time  before  done  when  asking  equall}^ 
solemn  questions  concerning  the  fate  of  other  men's  chil- 
dren— "  did  you  see  any  thing  to  prove  what  killed  him  ?  He 
went  away  from  home  on  horseback — " 

"  Yes,  he  was  on  horseback  at  Mrs.  Hayley's  only  a  little 
M-hile  ago,"  Elsie  mustered  strength  to  interrupt. 

"Did  you  see  his  horse? — had  he  fallen  from  it — or — " 
and  then  the  voice  of  the  father,  who  but  a  few  moments 
Ijefore  had  believed  his  love  for  his  son  crushed  out  forever, 
entirely  broke  down.  Heaven  only  knew  tiie  agony  of  the 
question  he  was  attempting  to  put;  for  the  thought  had 
taken  possession  of  him  that  that  son,  overwhelmed  by  the 
knowledge  that  he  would  be  pointed  out  and  scoffed  as  a 
poltroon,  had  shown  his  second  lack  of  courage  by  laying 
7 


11-i  THE      COWARD. 

violent  hands  on  his  own  life  and  rushing  unbidden  into  the 
presence  of  his  Maker  ! 

"  No,"  answered  Kitty  Hood,  setting  her  teeth  hard  as  she 
realized  that  the  time  had  come  when  she  must  prove  her 
own  honesty  at  the  possible  sacrifice  of  the  life  of  the  man 
who  had  been  her  lover.  "  No,  I  did  not  see  his  horse.  He 
had  not  been  killed  by  falling  from  it.  I  am  sure.  He  had 
been  murdered  !" 

"  Murdered  !"  Again  the  w^ord  was  a  double  echo  from  the 
very  dissimilar  voices  of  father  and  daughter ;  the  latter 
speaking  in  the  terror  of  the  thought,  the  former  under  the 
conviction  that  the  dreadful  truth  was  being  revealed,  and 
that,  though  the  young  girl  did  not  suspect  the  fact,  the 
crime  would  be  found  to  have  becui  sp//-murder. 

"  There  was  blood  on  his  face  and  on  the  grass,"  poor  Kitty 
went  on,  "and  there  was  a  bundle  lying  close  beside  him, 
that  I  had  seen  under  the  arm  of — of — " 

"Eh,  what?  Under  whose  arm  ?"  asked  the  father,  in  a 
quick  voice,  as  the  relation  took  this  new  turn. 

"  Richard  Compton's  !"  choked  out  Kitty  Hood. 

"  Richard  Compton's  !"  again  echoed  the  old  man.  "Why 
he  was  your — " 

"We  were  engaged  to  be  married,"  cried  poor  Kitty,  at 
last  overwrought  and  bursting  into  tears.  "  But  I  must  tell 
the  truth,  even  if  it  hangs  him  and  breaks  my  heart.  He  was 
at  the  school-house  only  a  little  wiiile  before ;  he  was  angry 
with  Mr.  Carlton,  and  threatened  him  ;  and  I  am  afraid  that 
he  killed  him." 

"  Oh,  this  is  dreadful  !"  said  Elsie. 

"Dreadful  indeed!"  replied  Robert  Brand,  whose  own 
grief  and  horror  were  somewhat  modified  if  not  lessened  by 
the  thought  in  what  a  situation  the  honest  young  girl  was 
placing  herself  and  her  lover.  He  reached  back  and  pulled 
the  bell-rope  again,  and  again  Elspeth  Graeme  made  her  ap- 
pearance, a  little  surprised  to  find  three  persons  in  the  room 
where  she  had  before  left  but  two,  the  third  coming  unan- 


THE      COWARD.  115 

nounced,  and  all  three  of  the  faces  looking  a?  if  their  owners 
had  been  summoned  to  execution. 

"  Tell  Stephen  to  get  up  the  large  carriage,  instantly,  and 
have  it  round  witliin  five  minutes,"  was  tlir  ovdw  to  tlie  old 
woman,  delivered  in  a  quick  and  agitated  v()i(M>. 

"Are  ye  gaeia'  out,  sir  ?"  was  the  iiKpiiry,  in  rc])ly. 

"  Yes,  but  what  is  that  to  you,  woman  V 

"Xaethin',  maybe,  only  you're  clean  daft  ifyc'r  thinkin'  of  it, 
Mr.  Robert  Brand." 

"  I  am  not  only  thinking  of  it  but  going  to  do  it;  and  the 
quicker  you  do  my  bidding,  the  better." 

"Gang  yer  ways,  then,  for  an  uncanny,  unmanageable 
auld  ne'er-do-weel  !"  was  the  grumbling  comment  of  the 
Scotch  woman,  as  she  prepared  to  obey  the  injunction.  She 
strode  half  way  through  the  parlor,  then  returned  and  fired 
another  shot  into  the  invalid's  room  before  she  finally  departed  : 
"  Hech,  but  yeVe  been  sendin'  away  the  doctor  w^i'  the  grin 
on  his  grunzie,  and  wha'  will  I  ca'  when  ye  come  back  a' 
ram-feezled  and  done  over — answer  me  that,  noo  !" 

Less  than  five  minutes  sufficed  to  bring  the  carriage  to  the 
door,  with  its  team  of  w^ell-groomed  bays,  and  wMth  much 
exertion  (of  which  the  stalwart  Elspeth  furnished  no  small 
proportion)  the  invalid  was  placed  in  it  and  so  surrounded 
with  cushions  that  he  could  ride  with  comparative  ease. 
Elsie's  tearful  request  to  be  allowed  to  accompany  him  in  his 
quest  of  the  body  of  her  brother  was  sharply  denied,  with 
orders  that  both  Kitty  and  herself  should  remain  within 
the  house  until  his  return  ;  and  the  carriage  drove  rapidly 
away  towards  the  point  designated  by  the  school-mistress, 
while  the  housekeeper  was  learning  the  fearful  tidings  from 
the  lips  of  the  two  girls,  and  uttering  broken  laments  and 
raining  tears  down  lier  coarse  cheeks,  over  "her  winsome 
bairn  that  had  been  sae  sair  wanchancie  !" 

Scarcely  more  time  than  had  been  consumed  in  getting 
ready  the  vehicle  elapsed  before  the  carriage,  driven  at  rapid 
speed,  dashed  up  to  the  spot  that  had  been  indicated  by 


116  THE      C  O  W  A  n  T). 

Kitty,  the  eyps  of  the  father  lookiji}!  out  in  advnnce  with  on 
indescrihable  horror,  to  catch  the  first  olimjise  of  th«'  body  of 
a  son  whom  lie  half  accursed  himself,  in  his  own  heart,  of 
murderinjii:.  A  doctor's  top-sulky  and  a  saddled  horse,  with 
two  men,  were  seen  standing  near  the  irate  as  they  approached  ; 
but,  strangely  enough,  they  saw  no  dead  body.  One  of  these 
men,  Robert  Brand  saw,  was  the  young  farmer,  Richard 
Co'mpton,  who  had  been  accused  by  Kilty  of  committing  that 
terrible  crime;  the  other,  standing  by  the  side  of  his  i>rofes- 
sional  sulky,  was  a  man  of  twenty-five,  of  medium  height, 
very  carefully  dressed,  fair  faced,  dark  haired  and  dark  eye<l, 
with  features  well  rounded  and  an  inexpressibly  sweet  smilo 
about  the  handsome  mouth,  which  might  have  made  an  im- 
pression, under  proper  circumstances,  upon  other  hearts  than 
the  susceptible  one  of  Elsie  Brand.  Dr.  James  Ilolton,  as 
has  before  been  said,  was  a  young  physician,  in  very  moder- 
ate practice,  pleasing  though  very  quiet  in  manners,  irre- 
proachable in  character  (an  unpopular  point,  as  we  are  all 
well  aware,  in  one  of  the  heroes  of  any  tale),  and  considered 
very  much  more  eligible  as  a  match  by  the  young  lady  with 
^vhom  his  name  has  before  been  connected,  than  by  the  parent 
who  was  supposed  to  have  the  disposal  of  her  hand.  Dr. 
Holton,  as  many  people  believed,  possessed  skill  enough  and 
was  sufficiently  attentive  and  studious  in  his  profession,  to 
have  run  a  closer  race  with  the  local  professional  autocrat, 
Dr.  Pomeroy,  than  he  had  yet  been  able  to  do,  but  for  tho 
skilfully  managed  sneers  and  quiet  undervaluations  by  which 
the  elder  had  kept  him  from  winning  public  confidence.  For 
more  than  two  3'ears  he  had  been  a  frequent  visitor  at  Robert 
Brand's,  received  with  undisguised  pleasure  by  Elsie  and 
treated  with  great  consideration  by  her  brother,  but  meeting 
from  the  respected  head  of  the  family  that  peculiar  treatment 
which  can  no  more  be  construed  into  cordiality  than  insult, 
and  which  says,  quite  as  plainl}"  as  words  could  speak,  "  You 
are  a  respectable  young  man  enough,  and  may  be  received 
with  politeness  as  a  visitor  ;  but  you  do  not  amount  to  enough 


THE      COWAKD.  117 

in  the  world,  ever  to  become  a  member  of  my  family." 
Quiirrel  as  he  might  with  Dr.  Philip  Fomeroy,  the  old  gen- 
tleman persisted  in  retaining  him  as  his  medical  adviser;  and 
it  was  her  knowledge  of  the  antagonism  between  the  two 
and  of  the  estimation  in  which  each  was  held,  that  had  in- 
duced the  housekeeper  to  make  her  parting  suggestion  of  the 
effect  which  must  follow  his  order  to  set  the  dog  on  Pomeroy 
if  he  ever  again  attempted  to  approach  the  house,  xs'o  one, 
meanwhile,  could  better  appreciate  his  own  position  than  Di*. 
James  Holton  ;  and  while  well  aware  that  he  loved  Elsie 
Brand  dearly,  and  firmly  believing  that  she  held  towards  him 
an  unwavering  affection,  he  was  content  to  wait  until  his 
fortunes  should  so  improve  as  to  make  him  a  more  eligible 
match  for  her,  or  until  in  some  other  providential  manner  the 
obstacles  to  their  union  might  be  removed. 

Such  was  the  gentleman  who  approached  Robert  Brand's 
carriage  door  with  a  bow,  the  moment  the  coachman  had 
reined  up  his  horses,  and  while  that  gentleman  was  looking 
around  with  fearful  anxiety  for  an  object  which  his  eyes  did 
not  discover. 

**  We  are  in  trouble  about  your  son,"  he  said,  before  the 
other  had  spoken.  "  Something  very  extraordinary  has  oc- 
curred.    Have  you  heard — " 

"  That  my  son  was  killed  and  lying  here  ?  Yes.  Miss 
Kitty  Hood,  the  schoolmistress,  saw  the  body  as  she  passed, 
and  came  to  inform  me." 

"Kitty  Hood!"  gasped  Richard  Compton,  turning  from 
the  fence  against  which  he  had  been  leaning,  and  exhibiting 
a  face  nearly  as  white  as  that  traditionally  supposed  to 
belong  to  a  ghost. 

"  Is  it  true  ?"  continued  the  father.  *'  If  so,  where  is  the 
body  ?" 

'  That  is  w^hat  puzzles  us,"  answered  the  physician.  "  Mr. 
Compton,  here,  had  an  altercation  with  your  son — " 

"  Excuse  me,  Doctor,  for  telling  the  story  myself,"  said  the 
farmer,  interrupting.     "Altercation  is  not  the  word— it  was 


118  T  H  E      C  O  W  A  K  D, 

a  fvjht.  The  devil  was  iu  rne,  I  suppose,  and  I  insulted 
Carlton  Brand  like  a  fool,  and  dared  him  to  get  off  his  horse 
to  fight  me.  He  got  off,  we  exchanged  a  few  blows,  and 
directly  he  knocked  me  stiff.  Perhaps  I  hit  him  in  some 
unlucky  place  at  the  same  time — I  do  not  know.  All  that  I 
do  know  is,  that  when  I  got  my  senses  again,  he  lay  stiff*  as 
a  poker  there  on  the  grass.  I  thought  him  dead  or  dying, 
and  rode  away  on  his  horse  for  the  doctor.  AVhen  we  got 
here,  just  a  moment  ago,  the  body,  or  Mr.  Carlton  Brand 
with  the  life  in  him — the  Lord  knows  which  I — was  gone." 

"  My  son  got  off  his  horse  to  fight  you,  you  say  ?"  asked 
Robert  Brand,  in  such  a  tone  of  interest  as  almost  seemed  to 
be  exulting. 

"  Yes,  sir,''  answered  the  farmer. 

"And  actually  fought  you  ? — do  not  tell  me  a  falsehood  on 
this  point,  young  man,  for  your  life  !'' 

"  Fought  me  ?  yes.  he  did  more  than  that — whipped  me  ; 
and  I  do  not  let  myself  be  whipped  every  day.  If  I  ever 
found  strength  to  rise  again,  I  was  just  going  to  own  up  beat 
and  ask  his  pardon." 

From  that  moment,  an  expression  of  pain  which  hnd  been 
perceptible  on  Robert  Brand's  face  from  the  instant  of  his 
conversation  with  Dr.  Pomeroy,  changed  in  its  character  and 
lightened  up,  so  to  speak,  if  it  did  not  entirely  depart.  "Not 
so  total  and  abject  a  poltroon  as  I  feared  !"  was  his  thought. 
He  had  not  alighted  from  the  carriage,  his  crippled  limb 
making  that  step  difficult;  but  leaning  over  the  side  of  it,  he 
saw  something  on  the  grass  reminding  him  of  what  Kitty  had 
alleged. 

"  There  is  blood  upon  the  gras.s — who.'^e  is  it  ? — my  son's  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  Mine,  every  drop  of  it — out  of  my  nose.  See,  here  is  the 
rest  of  it,"  answered  Dick  Compton,  drawing  from  his  pocket 
the  bloody  handkerchief  with  which  he  had  tried  to  improve 
the  ap})earance  of  his  countenance,  while  riding  away  after 
the  doctor. 


THE      COWARD.  119 

"What  do  you  mako  of  all  this,  Doctor?"  at  length  asked 
Uobert  Brand. 

"It  puzzles  me,  of  rourse,"  said  the  medical  man.  "  It  is 
strange  how  Mr.  Brand  should  have  fallen  for  dead,  if  he  was 
not.  And  yet  it  is  not  likely  that  any  one  would  have  taken 
up  the  body  and  carried  it  away,  if  he  was.  It  would  seem 
most  probable  that — " 

"  That  he  is  still  alive  ?" 

"  That  his  apparent  death  was  only  the  result  of  a  fit  of 
some  character,  and  that,  coming  to  af^er  Mr.  Compton  left, 
and  missing  his  horse,  he  has  gone  homeward,  or  in  some 
other  direction,  on  foot." 

"  So  I  should  think,"  answered  the  father.  "  Stephen, 
drive  me  home  again.  If  you  should  hear  any  thing  further. 
Doctor — " 

"  I  will  do  myself  the  honor  of  letting  you  know  imme- 
diately," answered  the  young  physician,  with  a  bow  and  a 
quiet  consciousness  that,  from  stress  of  circumstances,  the 
man  whom  he  yet  hoped  to  call  father-in-law,  had  at  last 
given  him  a  tacit  invitation  to  come  to  his  house  on  his  busi- 
ness. 

"And  what  shall  I  do  with  the  horse  ?"  asked  Compton. 

"As  it  seems  that  you  have  been  the  means  of  forcing  the 
rider  off  its  back,  if  you  have  not  killed  him,  I  think  you  can 
do  no  less  than  to  ride  him  home  to  Mr.  Brand's  stables," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  I  brought  you  here  for  nothing,  Doctor. 
You  don't  think  that  1  need  to  go  and  give  myself  up,  eh  ?" 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  you  brought  me  here  for  nothing,  ns 
it  appears,  instead  of  for  something,"  answered  the  doctor. 
"  No,  I  do  not  think  that  you  will  have  occasion  to  give  any 
thing  up,  excejjt  your  bad  temper  and  your  propensity  for 
fighting  peaceable  men  along  public  roads.  I  wish  you  a 
very  good  day,  Mr.  Brand  !"  and  stepping  into  his  sulky,  he 
drove  away  down  the  road  to  attend  to  some  one  of  his  limited 
number  of  patients ;   while   the  carriage   containing  Ilobert 


120  TH  E      C  U  W  A  K  1). 

Brand  whirled  rapidly  Lome  again,  followed  at  a  little  dis- 
tance by  Dick  Compton  on  Carlton  Brand's  horse,  the  fear 
of  being  proved  a  murderer  somewhat  lifted  from  his  mind  ; 
his  military  pants  haunting  him  a  little  less  than  they  had 
done  during  the  former  ride  ;  and  the  bundle  which  had  at 
one  time  threatened  to  prove  so  damning  an  evidence  against 
him,  hugged  up  under  his  left  arm. 


CHAPTER   YL 

The  Residexce  of  Dr.  Pomeroy — Xathan  Bladesden  and 
Eleanor  Hill — A  kneeling  Woman  and  a  rigid  (Quaker 
— The  ruin  that  a  Letter  had  wrought — A  Parting 

THAT  seemed  ETERNAL — CaRLTON  BrAND  ALIVE  ONCE  MORE, 

AND  A  Glance  at  the  fatal  Letter. 

It  sometimes  happens,  in  this  world  which  fast  people  con- 
sider dull  and  slow,  that  events  crowd  themselves  very  closely, 
both  as  to  time  and  space.  Within  a  very  limited  section,  in 
a  period  covering  scarcely  more  than  an  hour,  we  have  seen 
a  complication  of  occurrences,  affecting  many  persons,  sufB- 
cient  to  occupy  many  hours  in  the  recital.  And  yet  the  store- 
houses of  event  and  circums-tance  have  not  yet  been  at  all 
closely  ransacked  ;  and  that  June-day  has  yet  much  to  reveal, 
affecting  some  of  the  persons  already  introduced,  and  others 
who  have  not  yet  come  into  the  field  of  observation. 

The  spot  at  which  the  conflict  between  Carlton  Brand  and 
Richard  Compton  occurred,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  at 
the  intersection  of  the  highway  leading  down  to  the  Schuyl- 
kill at  Market  Street,  by  a  blind  road  which  ran  back  south- 
wardly through  the  wood, — and  that  the  request  of  the  lawyer 
to  Compton  that  he  would  open  the  gate  admitting  to  that 


THE      COWAKD.  121 

blind  road,  was  made  by  the  farmer  the  occasion  of  tliat  quar- 
rel and  fi<rht  which  we  have  seen  terminate  so  singularly. 

Followinj]^  that  blind  road  half  a  mile  throuirh  the  wood, 
southward  towards  the  Darby  road,  the  visitor  descended  the 
little  range  of  high  land  crowned  by  the  wood,  crossed  a  wide 
meadow  with  the  frogs  sunning  themselves  on  the  banks  of 
the  little  brooks  that  ran  beneath  the  bridges  of  the  causeway, 
and  the  blackbirds  singing  in  the  low  clumps  of  elder-bush 
that  grew  beside  them,  and  found  himself,  on  the  other  side, 
rising  another  slight  hillock  and  at  the  back  gate  of  the  resi- 
dence of  Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy. 

This  was  a  house  of  modern  construction,  and  of  a  com- 
pleteness betokening  the  wealth  of  the  owner  ;  standing  near 
the  crown  of  the  hillock,  with  the  garden  at  the  back  sloping 
away  towards  the  meadow  (a  bad  slope,  that  towards  the 
north,  all  the  agriculturists  in  the  section  averred)  ;  hand- 
some shrubbery  in  the  broad  yard  lying  before  the  pillared 
front  or  south  face  of  the  house  ;  and  a  good  many  fine  trees 
of  inconsiderable  age,  with  the  pine  everywhere  predominant, 
promising  abundant  shade  in  coming  years,  both  in  front  and 
at  the  rear.  The  continuation  of  the  blind  road  which  crossed 
the  meadow,  exteaded  past  the  house  on  the  west  side,  imme- 
diately beside  the  pickets  of  the  yard  enclosure,  and  running 
across  to  the  Darby  road  afforded  access  to  both  the  great 
highways,  with  only  short  distances  of  travel,  and  at  the 
price  of  opening  an  occasional  gate,  which  merely  answered 
the  purpose  of  stretching  the  cramped  limbs  of  the  rider. 
8onie  persons,  who  knew  the  extensive  practice  of  Dr.  Pom- 
eroy, were  disposed  to  wonder  that  he  had  not  located  him- 
self immediately  on  one  of  the  great  roads,  with  no  necessity 
for  traversing  by-ways  to  reach  them  ;  while  others,  who 
better  knew  the  peculiarities  of  his  will,  believed  that  his  mo- 
tive was  a  fancy  for  being  comparatively  isolated  and  a  little 
baronial.  Whether  he  really  had  any  motive  whatever  in 
selecting  the  location,  except  the  desire  of  pleasing  himself,  is 
a  matter  of  very  little  consequence. 


122  THE      CO  W  A  R  D  . 

There  was  alight  biiggj,  drawn  by  two  maguificent  horses, 
standing  at  a  post  in  the  road,  very  near  the  house,  at  a  little 
after  noon  on  that  day;  and  within  the  house  certain  develop- 
ments were  at  the  same  moment  being  made,  so  illustrative 
of  the  depth  to  which  human  depravity  can  descend  when  the 
rein  is  given  to  all  base  and  unholy  passions,  that  tl^e  pea 
of  the  narrator,  who  is  merely  attempting  a  feeble  recital  of 
actual  occurrences  in  the  real  life  ofto-day,  pauses  at  the  task 
before  it,  the  fact  being  so  certain  that  the  circumstances 
about  to  be  recorded  will  be  supposed  to  have  sprung  from 
the  disorder  of  an  unscrupulous  imagination,  instead  of  being 
the  fruit  of  sad  research  and  knowledge  that  would  be  avoided 
if  such  a  thing  was  possible. 

The  middle  portion  of  the  front  of  the  doctor's  residence, 
immediately  over  the  somewhat  narrow  portico,  was  a  sitting- 
room  of  small  dimensions,  tastily  furnished ;  while  out  of  it 
opened  a  little  bed-room,  the  white  curtains  and  snowy  bed- 
drapery  of  which,  seen  in  glimpses  through  the  door,  sug- 
gested maiden  purity  and  peace  or  that  bridal  rest  which 
should  be  quite  as  pure  and  holy.  The  sitting-room  had  at 
that  moment  two  occupants  ;  and  the  picture  presented  was 
such  as  no  looker-on  would  have  been  likely  to  forget  while 
he  lived. 

Nearly  in  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  a  gentleman  some 
years  past  middle  age,  large  framed  and  with  large  hands,  tall 
and  commanding  in  figure,  unexceptionably  dressed  in  gar- 
ments betraying  the  Quaker  cut,  and  with  that  air  of  undeni- 
able respectability  which  no  pretence  can  ever  imitate,  con- 
veyed by  every  motion  of  the  man  and  every  fold  of  his  garments. 
He  was  dark-eyed  and  with  features  a  little  prominent;  and 
years  had  made  a  perceptible  mark  on  the  smoothness  of  his 
face,  at  the  same  time  that  they  had  heavily  gra^'ed  his  neat 
side-whiskers  and  dashed  heavy  masses  of  gray  among  the 
still-curling  locks  that  clustered  upon  his  head.  A  merchant 
or  banker,  evidently,  from  ilfcnner  and  general  appearance- — 
and  one  to  whom  the  idt^'^of  dishonorable  conduct  and  the 


THE      COWARD,  126 

thouj]jht  of  a  disgraced  reputation  would  be  alike  unendurable, 
AVith  a  face  in  which  sorrow  seemed  to  be  struggling  with 
anger,  this  man  stood  holding  a  letter  clenched  in  his  right 
hand,  and  looking  down  upon  something  at  his  feet.  That 
something  was  a  woman. 

The  woman  was  kneeling,  with  hands  clasped  in  entreaty, 
hair  shaken  partially  loose,  face  streaming  with  tears,  and  her 
whole  system  so  shaken  by  the  sobs  convulsing  it  that  the  most 
dangerous  form  of  hysterics  might  be  very  likely  to  follow  that 
excitement.  Even  when  kneeling  it  was  to  be  observed  that 
her  figure  was  tall,  finely  moulded  and  upright — that  her  face 
was  fair,  pleasant,  and  notably  handsome,  though  the  features 
were  too  small,  the  dark  eyes  mournful,  and  the  general  im- 
pression created  that  of  confiding  helplessness  very  likely  to 
degenerate  into  dangerous  weakness — that  her  hands  were 
long,  taper  and  delicate,  as  beseemed  her  figure — that  her 
brown  hair  w^as  very  full,  rich,  silken  and  glossy — and  that 
she  had  probably  numbered  some  five-and-twenty  summers. 
Formed  to  be  loved,  protected  and  shielded  from  every  harm, 
and  certain  to  return  for  that  love  and  protection  the  most  un- 
reserved affection  and  the  most  unquestioning  obedience  ;  and 
yet  kneeling  there  with  that  upon  her  face  which  told  a  tale 
of  the  most  cruel  outrage  quite  as  plainly  as  the  quivering 
lips  could  speak  it  I 

Much  has  been  said  of  the  sadness  of  the  spectacle  when  a 
strong  man  weeps,  as  compared  to  the  same  exhibition  of 
feeling  by  a  woman.  It  is  equally  sad  when  a  woman  is  seen 
kneeling  to  any  other  power  than  that  of  her  God  !  It  seems 
man's  province,  given  alike  by  nature  and  the  laws  of  chivalry, 
to  bend  his  proud  knee  in  other  aspects  than  that  of  devotion  ; 
and  even  when  he  is  showing  that  prostration  his  eye  may  be 
glowing  with  the  conscious  pride  of  the  future  conqueror ; 
but  what  except  the  most  abject  shame  or  the  most  over- 
whelming sorrow,  can  be  shown  when  the  delicate  limb  of 
womanhood  kisses'  the  green  sod  or  the  floor  beneath  her 
tread  ?     To    save  by  pitiful  entreaties  a  perilled  honor — to 


124  THE      CO  ^V  A  K  1) . 

beg  through  blinding  tears  and  choking  sobs  the  restoration 
of  that  honor  lost,  that  c«an  often  so  '^-.asily  be  given  back  to 
her  by  tiie  hands  of  the  tyrant  who  will  not  hear  her  cry — 
to  implore  the  concealment  of  a  slianie  too  heavy  to  bear — to 
plead  for  the  forfeit  life  of  some  one  dearer  than  the  very 
pulses  beating  in  her  own  bosom^ — to  moan  for  the  restora- 
tion of  some  object  of  love  and  protection,  her  babe  perhaps, 
reft  from  her  and  her  heart  and  her  arms  left  alike  empty — ay, 
to  wail  for  the  boon  of  a  crust  that  shall  chase  starvation  frtjm 
the  thin  lips  of  herself  or  her  child  and  keep  them  yet  a  little 
longer  as  clinging  sufferers  upon  the  earth, — these  have  been 
the  compelli-ng  motives  so  often  bending  the  knee  of  woman 
since  the  earliest  day  of  recorded  time.  And  yet  not  one  of  all 
the  long  array  of  unchronicled  martyrs  has  been  bowed  under 
a  deeper  wrong  than  w^as  that  day  made  manifest,  or  uttered  a 
more  piteous  appeal  than  that  day  went  up  to  heaven  ! 

"Oh,  do  not  cast  me  off! — do  not  desert  me,  Mr.  Blades- 
den  !''  w^ailed  a  voice  that  would  have  been  marvellously 
sweet  and  tender  had  it  not  been  broken  and  roughened  by 
grief,  while  her  poor  hands  wrung  and  agonized  themselves 
in  sad  sympathy  with  the  writhings  of  her  cowering  form. 
"  Do  not  take  away  from  me  my  last  hope  of  knowing  one 
hour  of  peace  before  they  put  me  into  the  coffin!  I  am  no 
w^orse  to-day  than  I  was  yesterday  !  Oh,  do  pity  and  save 
me,  even  if  you  cannot  love  me  any  longer  !" 

"  I  do  pity  thee,  Eleanor  Hill,  and  I  should  like  to  save 
thee  if  I  could  !"  answered  a  voice  rich,  full  and  strong,  w  ith 
only  an  occasional  tremor  in  its  intonation,  and  the  Quaker 
phraseology  seeming  to  accord  peculiarly  with  the  voice  as 
well  as  the  general  appearance  of  the  man.  "  But  thou  hast 
deceived  me,  and  the  plain  people — " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  did  not  deceive  you,  Mr.  Bladesden,"  the  poor 
girl  interrupted.  "  Do  let  me  speak  !  Do  let  me  try  if  I 
cannot  move  your  heart  to  believe  that  I  have  never  willingly 
done  wrong — that  I  have  never  been  intentionally  wicked  1'^ 

''  Can  thee  deny  what  is  in  this  letter,  Eleanor  Hill  ?"  asked 


THE      CO  W  A  11  T).  I2i) 

tho  Qunker,  his  voice  tronibliiiir,  in  spite  of  himself,  a  liiile 
iiioro  thtm  it  had  before  done.  Then  ho  added,  with  some- 
tliini(  very  like  a  solvin  his  throat,  that  seemed  stranp;ely  at 
variance  with  the  <^eneriil  calmness  of  his  demeanor:  "I 
am  rich,  EU'nnor — very  rich,  men  say  ;  and  yet  1  wonid  prive 
half  of  a'l  that  I  have  won  in  these  many  years  that  have 
made  mv  hair  li'ray,  if  I  could  see  thee  lay  thy  hand  upon 
tliv  iieart  and  look  up  in  my  face  and  say:  'The  man  who 
writes  this  writes  i'alsehood  !'" 

"  I  caiHK^t — oh,  (lod,  you  know  that  I  cannot,  Mr.  Blades- 
den  !"  sobl)ed  the  poor  ^irl.  "  It  is  true  in  word,  and  yet 
heaven  knows  how  false  it  is  in  spirit." 

"Thee  shonld  not  appeal  to  heaven  so  much,  Eleanor,  and 
thee  should  rise  from  thy  knees,  for  I  will  believe  thee  just  as 
cpiicklv  in  the  one  position  as  the  other,  and  the  friendly 
people  make  their  yea  yea  and  their  nay  nay,  without  takinj^ 
the  name  of  the  Father  every  moment  between  their  lips." 

Eleanor  Hill  managed  to  rise  from  her  knees  and  stag:f^er 
to  her  feet ;  but  her  position  was  not  the  less  humble  after- 
ward, for  she  stood  grasping  the  back  of  a  chair  with  both 
hands  for  support,  and  with  her  head  bowed  down  in  such 
abject  shame  and  humility  that  the  change  of  posture  seemed 
rather  to  have  been  taking  on  an  added  degradation  than 
putting  one  away. 

"  See,  I  have  done  as  you  told  me  to  do  !"  she  said,  with- 
out looking  up.  "  I  would  be  so  obedient  to  you,  always, 
if  you  would  only  take  me  away  from  this  miser}'  and  shame. 
Oh,  why  would  he  injure  me  so  cruelly — me  to  whom  he 
should  have  been  merciful,  now%  if  there  was  any  mercy  in 
his  nature  !" 

"  Can  thee  say  that  Doctor  Philip  did  not  do  right,  if,  as 
thee  says,  he  wrote  this  letter?"  asked  the  Quaker,  keeping 
his  eyes  steadily  upon  the  crouching  woman,  and  making  no 
motion  to  change  the  distance  betw^een  them.  "  Thee  had  de- 
ceived me,  and  he  knew  it.  He  was  sure,  perhaps,  that  thee 
had  not  told  me  all,  and — " 


126  TIIK      GOWAKD. 

"  I  told  you,  months  B,g:o,  when  you  fir^t  spolce  of  niakinj:^ 
nie  your  wife,  Mr.  Bladesden,"  said  the  poor  <rirl,  with  one 
momentary  lifting  of  the  bowed  head  ^JftfTonc  transient  flash 
of  womanly  spirit — "  that  I  could  not  give  you  a  whole  heart 
— that  my  life  had  been  very  unfortunate,  and  that  if  I  con- 
sented to  marry  you,  you  must  promise  never  to  ask  me  one 
question  of  my  miserable  past.  Do  you  remember  that  I 
did  ?" 

"  Thee  did  tell  me  so  much,  Eleanor,"  answered  the 
Quaker.     "  But  thee  only  indicated  misfortune — not  guilt." 

"  I  have  not  been  guilty — I  was  never  guilty  !"  spoke  the 
girl,  the  momentary  flash  of  womanhood  not  yet  extinguished. 
"  You  will  not  let  me  appeal  to  heaven,  Mr.  Bladesden,  yet 
I  must  do  so  once  more.  I  call  upon  the  all-seeing  God  to 
punish  me  with  even  worse  grief  and  shame  than  I  have 
already  borne,  if  there  has  ever  been  one  guilty  wish  in  my 
mind  towards  that  man  or  any  other — if  T  have  not  been 
forced  or  deceived  into  every  act  which  makes  youLi  despise  me 
to-day." 

The  Quaker  turned  away,  the  letter  still  in  his  hand,  and 
walked  toward  the  window.  He  lifted  the  other  hand  to  his 
brow  and  seemed  to  brush  away  something  that  troubled  him ; 
and  he  yet  retained  that  position  towards  the  girl,  as  he  said, 
after  the  pause  of  a  moment : 

"  I  believe  thee  speaks  the  truth,  Eleanor  Hill." 

"You  do  believe  me  !  Oh,  thank  you  for  that  mercy,  if 
no  more  !"  and  the  poor  girl  had  stepped  forward,  caught  his 
disengaged  hand  in  both  hers  and  lifted  it  to  her  lips,  before 
be  could  prevent  her.  Then  something  in  his  manner,  as  he 
turned,  seemed  to  chill  her  again  to  the  heart,  and  she  fell 
back  silent  to  the  support  of  the  chair. 

"I  believe  thee  so  far,  and  yet  thee  deceived  me." 

"  How  could  I  tell  you  all,  Mr.  Bladesden  ?  How  could  I 
publish  my  own  shame  ?  Oh,  why  was  I  ever  born  !"  and 
the  voice  had  sunk  low  again,  and  the  spirit  seemed  crushed 
quite  as  completely  as  before. 


THE      COWARD.  127 

"  Then  blames  Pr.  Philip,  and  yet  Dr.  Philip  was  a  better 
frieiul  to  me  than  thee  was;  for  thee  would  have  allowed  me 
to  hrins^  disc^race  upon  my  name,  and  he  would  not." 

The  proverbial  worm  turns  when  trodden  upon.  Eleanor 
Hill  had  little  native  spirit,  and  she  had  been  the  veriest  worm 
of  the  dust  throughout  all  that  terrible  interview;  but  this 
last  deadly  stab  at  the  vitals  of  her  faith,  given  in  laudation 
of  her  destroyer,  seemed  too  much  for  human  endurance,  and 
there  was  yet  one  spark  of  spirit  left  in  the  very  ashes  of  dis- 
grace. 

"Nathan  Bladesden,"  she  said,  standing  fully  erect,  and 
anger  usurping  the  place  of  shame  in  her  face,  "  I  am  satis- 
fied !  I  will  kneel  to  you  no  more — beg  you  for  mercy  no 
more  I  If  you  are  base  enough  to  defend  the  man  who  could 
write  that  letter,  and  to  call  his  action  honorable,  I  would 
rather  crawl  out  into  the  road  and  beg  my  bread  from  door 
to  door,  than  to  call  you  husband  ;  and  I  thank  heaven  even 
for  that  letter  which  has  saved  me  from  a  worse  man  than 
Philip  Pomeroy  !" 

Life  and  society  are  both  full  of  terrible  struggles.  Per- 
haps there  is  no  conflict  of  them  all,  more  enduring  in  its 
character,  or  more  racking  to  those  necessarily  engaged  in 
it,  than  that  which  is  fought  by  those  who  take  the  Sermon 
on  the  Mount  as  their  declared  pattern,  and  attempt  to  carry 
out  the  principles  it  enunciates.  To  forgive  when  smitten 
is  God-like  ;  but,  oh,  how  difficult  for  any  mere  man  !  To 
love  an  enemy  is  an  injunction  coming  down  to  us  from  a 
higher  and  purer  source  than  that  which  gave  the  philosophy 
once  taught  in  the  Groves  of  Academe  ;  but,  oh,  tow  impos- 
sible for  any  man  to  do  in  realit}^,  until  he  has  been  baptized 
with  fire  !  While  others  have  waged  this  conflict  desultorily 
and  in  isolated  instances,  for  nearly  three  centuries,  the 
Quakers  have  waged  it  as  a  sect,  entitling  themselves  alike 
to  wonder  and  admiration.  They  have  practised  a  non- 
resistance  unaccountable  to  the  fiery  children  of  the  world, 
and  stark  madness  on  any  other  supposition  than  that  there 


128  r  HE     en  w  a  h  d. 

is  really  a  special  protecting  Hand  over  those  who  heed  the 
peaceful  injunction.  The}'  have  triumphed  alike  in  socirty 
and  in  savage  life,  when  the  strong  hand  failed  and  the  maxims 
of  worldly  wisdom  became  powerless.  And  on  the  faces  of 
the  men  and  women  of  the  sect,  to-day — beneath  the  broad 
hat  of  the  Friend,  under  the  close  gray  bonnet  of  his  wife,  on 
brow  and  cheek  of  the  Quaker  maiden  with  her  softly-folded 
hair,  and,  even  in  eye  and  lip  of  the  young  man  subjected  to 
temptations  wijich  have  power  to  ft'ver  and  wreck  all  others, 
— in  all,  there  is  the  record  of  a  long  line  of  men  at  ])eace 
with  God,  themselves,  and  the  world,  as  easily  read  and  as 
unmistakable  as  are  the  traces  of  toil,  unrest,  and  consuming 
passion  on  the  countenances  of  those  who  have  fought  through 
the  world  with  the  defiant  heart  and  the  strong  hand.  They 
have  met  despisers  as  well  as  foes,  outside  of  their  own 
charmed  circle;  but  they  have-also  met  admirers.  And  to- 
day there  are  men  who  could  not  and  who  would  not  take  up 
their  cross  of  self-control  and  occasional  self-denial  so  long 
and  so  patiently  carried, — but  who  cannot  and  will  not  refuse 
to  them  the  tribute  of  heartfelt  admiration,  and  who  often 
heave  fruitless  sighs  towards  that  land  of  mental  peace  from 
which  they  are  themselves  excluded,  because  they  neither 
share  its  blood  nor  know  the  tongue  of  its  speech. 

But  the  Quaker  has  not  conquered  without  struggling,  and 
he  has  not  always  conquered  at  any  sacrifice.  Twice,  the  old 
men  of  the  Revolution  used  to  tell  us,  the  Pater  Patrice  was 
known  to  vent  words  of  even  profane  anger — once,  when  the 
Continental  troops  failed  him  on  the  day  of  Long  Island,  and 
again,  when  Lee  disappointed  his  just  expectations  and  almost 
broke  his  line  of  battle  at  Monmouth.  These  were  the  two 
great  exceptions  proving  the  rule  of  his  habitual  self-command 
and  his  religious  purity  of  speech;  and  the  occasional  out- 
burst of  anger  in  the  Quaker  Wood  may  be  held  to  illustrate 
the  same  self-control — to  prove  its  abiding  existence  by  the 
weight  of  the  shock  which  momentarily  throws  it  into  con- 
fusion. 


THE      COWARD.  129 

The  face  of  Nathan  Bladesden  showed,  as  Eleanor  Hill 
Bpoke  the  last  words  already  recorded,  a  mental  conflict  to 
which  he  was  evidently  little  accustomed.  The  calm  cheek 
flushed,  the  smooth  brow  corrugated,  and  the  dark  eye  was 
for  the  moment  so  nearly  fierce  that  the  purity  of  tho 
Quaker  blood  might  well  have  been  doubted.  And  when  she 
had  finished,  the  lips  of  the  merchant  uttered  words,  at 
which  words  themselves  and  their  tone  the  speaker  would 
equally  have  shuddered  half  an  hour  before  : 

"  Doctor  Philip  Pomeroy  is  an  infernal  scoundrel — unfit  to 
live  1  He  deserves  to  be  killed,  and  I  could  kill  him  with 
my  own  hands  I" 

"  Ha  !"  It  was  something  like  a  cry  of  joy  from  the  lips 
of  the  poor  girl.     "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !     You  know  this  man 

— you  hate  him — you  have  only  been  trying  me — you " 

and  her  brow  and  cheeks  glowed  with  excitement  as  she 
looked  up  in  the  Quaker's  face.  Then  her  eyes  fell  again, 
for  she  did  not  read  there  what  she  had  been  led  to  expect 
by  his  words.  There  was  anger,  but  no  pity  ;  and  even  the 
anger  was  dying  out  under  the  strong  habit  of  self-control, 
as  rapidly  as  the  momentary  glow  of  a  slight  conflagration 
goes  down  under  the  dense  volume  of  water  poured  upon  it 
by  the  engine. 

"Thee  mistakes  me,  Eleanor  Hill!"  he  said.  "I  may 
follow  the  evil  ways  of  the  world's  people  so  far  as  to  hate 
the  bad  man  who  has  ruined  thee,  but  I  have  been  speaking 
to  thee  in  all  earnest.  I  have  not  been  'trying  thee,'  as  thee 
calls  it.     I  pity  thee,  truly,  and  would  help  thee,  but — " 

"  But  in  the  only  way  in  which  you  could  help  me,  Nathan 
Bladesden,  by  lifting  me  out  of  this  horrible  pit  in  which  my 
feet  are  sinking  lower  and  lower  every  day  in  defiance  of  all 
my  struggles  and  all  my  prayers — you  desert  me  and  leave 
me  to  perish.  I  understand  you  at  last,  and  God  help  you 
and  me  !" 

"Thee  knows  I  cannot  marry  thee,  Eleanor  Hill,  after 
what  has  passed,"  said  the  Quaker,  apologetically. 
8 


130  THE      COWARD. 

"  I  know  notliing  of  the  kind,  Xatlian  Bladcsdon  !"  answered 
the  f^irl,  no  tears  in  her  eyes  now,  and  her  words  short  and 
even  petulant.  "  You  have  nothing  to  do  with  my  past,  any 
P'ore  than  I  with  yours,  to  come  to  the  truth  of  the  matter  ! 
Y«^.i  know,  in  your  own  soul,  that  had  you  despised  the 
malice  of  that  serpent  in  human  shape,  and  kept  the  engage- 
ment you  had  made  with  me,  no  man  on  earth  would  have 
owned  a  more  faithful  or  a  more  loving  wife.  But  you  have 
cast  me  off,  degraded  me  even  lower  than  before  in  my  own 
Bight,  made  me  kneel  to  you  as  I  should  only  have  kneeled 
to  my  Father  in  heaven ;  and  this  is  the  end." 

"  Eleanor — "  the  Quaker  began  to  say  ;  but  the  girl  inter- 
rupted him. 

"  Please  don't  say  another  word  to  me  I  I  understand  you, 
now,  and  I  know  my  fate.  Let  me  have  that  letter,  and  do 
not  speak  any  more  in  the  streets,  of  the  shame  of  a  woman 
whom  you  once  professed  to  love,  than  is  absolutely  necessary ; 
and  I  shall  never  ask  another  favor  of  you  in  this  world." 

"  Eleanor  Hill,  thee  is  doubting  my  honor !"  said  the 
Quaker,  alike  forgetting  that  such  idle  words  as  "  honor" 
were  only  supposed  to  belong  to  the  "world's  people,"  and 
that  his  voice  was  becoming  so  low  and  broken  that  he  could 
scarcely  make  himself  understood. 

"You  have  done  more  than  doubt  mine!"  answered  tho 
girl,  bitterly.  "  You  have  told  me,  in  so  many  words,  that 
because  I  had  been  cruelly  wronged  and  outraged  by  a  man 
who  should  have  cared  for  me  and  protected  me,  I  had  no 
'honor'  left.     "We  begin  to  understand  each  other." 

A  moment  of  silence,  the  girl  weeping  again  but  not  con- 
vulsively as  before  ;  the  Quaker  with  his  hand  upon  his  brow 
and  his  eyes  hidden.  How  materially  the  situation  had 
changed  within  a  few  minutes,  since  Eleanor  Hill  was  kneel- 
ing with  clasped  hands  and  tearing  out  her  heart  with  sobs. 
Yet  another  moment  of  silence,  and  then  the  merchant  said  : 

"  I  am  going  away,  Eleanor.  Has  thee  nothing  more  to 
say  to  me  ?'' 


THE      COWARD.  131 

"Not  another  word,  Mr.  Bladosden  I''  answered  the  girl, 
through  her  set  teeth.  The  Quaker  rai.sed  his  head,  looked 
at  her  face  for  one  moment,  and  then  slowly  moved  towards 
the  door,  still  looking  towards  her.  She  made  no  movement, 
as  he  seemed  to  expect  that  she  would  do,  and  as  it  seemed 
possible  that  some  changed  action  on  his  part  might  depend 
upon  her  doing. 

"  Farewell,  Eleanor  !"  The  Quaker  stood  in  the  door,  hat 
in  hand. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Bladesden  I"  The  girl  still  remained  on 
the  other  side  of  the  room,  as  if  either  too  much  stupefied  or 
too  indignant  to  make  any  nearer  approach.  The  next 
moment  Nathan  Bladesden  had  left  the  room  and  descended 
the  stairs ;  and  within  two  minutes  after,  seated  alone  in  the 
buggy,  behind  his  span  of  fast  horses,  he  was  bowling  along 
towards  the  Darby  road,  apparently  driving  at  such  speed  as 
if  he  would  willingly  fly  as  fast  as  possible  away  from  a  scene 
where  his  manhood  had  been  severely  tested  and  not  found 
proof  in  extremity. 

Fo>  an  instant  after  the  departure  of  the  Quaker,  Eleanor  Hill 
stood  erect  as  he  had  last  seen  her.  Both  hands  were  pressed 
upon  her  heart,  and  it  might  have  seemed  doubtful  whether 
she  had  nerved  herself  to  that  position  or  lacked  power  to 
quit  it.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  letter  which  Bladesden, 
when  she  requested  him  to  leave  it,  had  dropped  upon  a 
chair;  and  at  the  sight  the  spell,  whatever  it  was,  gave  way. 
The  poor  girl  dropped  upon  her  knees  before  another  chair 
which  stood  near  her,  with  a  cry  of  such  heart-breaking  agony 
as  must  have  moved  any  heart,  not  utterly  calloused,  that 
listened  to  it, — dashed  her  hand  into  her  long,  dishevelled 
hair  with  such  a  gesture  as  indicated  that  she  would  madly 
tear  it  out  by  the  roots  in  handfuls,  then  desisted  and  broke 
out  through  moans  and  sobs  into  one  of  those  prayers  which 
the  purists  believe  are  seldom  or  never  forgiven  by  the  heaven 
to  which  they  are  addressed — a  prayer  for  immediate  death  I 

"Oh  God  !— let  me  die  !     Do  let  me  die,  here  and  at  this 


132  THE      COWARD. 

moment  I     I  cannot  live  and  be  so  wretched  I     Let  me  die ! 
— oh,  let  me  die  I" 

Whether  unpardonable  or  not,  the  prayer  was  certainly  im- 
pious ;  for  next  to  that  last  extremity  of  crime  which  any  man 
commits  when  he  dismisses  his  own  life,  is  his  crime  when  he 
becomes  a  suicide  in  heart  and  wish,  without  daring  to  use 
the  physical  force  necessary  for  that  consummation.  Despair  is 
cowardice  ;  the  theft  of  time  is  a  sin  that  no  amendment  can 
repay ;  and  the  robbery  of  that  time  which  heaven  allots  to  a 
human  life,  whether  in  act  or  thought,  is  something  over 
which  humanity  well  may  shudder. 

But  Eleanor  Hill's  impious  prayer  had  no  answer — at  least 
no  answer  except  the  denial  found  in  the  breath  of  life  which 
still  fluttered  from  her  nostrils  and  the  blood  which  seemed  to 
flow  in  torture  through  the  poor  frame  sympathizing  with  the 
mind  within.  The  aspiration  was  scarcely  yet  dead  upon  her 
lips  when  there  was  a  footfall  on  the  floor  behind  her;  and 
she  sprung  up  with  one  wild  desperate  hope  darting  through 
her  brain,  that  the  stem  judge  had  at  last  relented  after  leav- 
ing her  presence — that  he  had  proved  himself  capable  of  a 
great  sacrifice  and  returned  to  extricate  her  feet  from  the  pit 
into  which  she  was  so  irretrievably  sinking.  But  that  hope 
died  on  the  instant,  another  and  if  possible  a  madder  one 
taking  its  place ;  for  before  her,  as  she  turned,  stood  Carlton 
Brand,  though  so  disfigured  and  changed  in  appearance  that 
any  one  except  the  most  intimate  of  acquaintances  might 
have  been  excused  for  doubting  his  identity, 
r  The  young  lawyer  had  always  been  noted  for  a  neatness 
of  personal  appearance  approaching  to  dandyism  without 
reaching  that  mark ;  and  only  an  hour  before,  in  face  and 
garb,  he  would  have  attracted  attention  in  any  circle,  from 
the  perfection  of  every  appointment.  Now,  his  face  was 
bruised  and  swollen  ;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  fiery  ;  one 
lappel  of  his  coat  was  torn  from  the  collar  ;  his  coat  and  his 
nether  garments  were  soiled  and  dusty ;  his  hat  was  crushed 
and  out  of  shape ;  and  every  detail  of  his  presence  seemed  to 


THE      COWARD.  133 

be  marred  in  corresponding  proportion.  A  rough  peasant's 
or  a  highwayman's  disguise  for  a  masquerade,  would  scarcely 
have  changed  him  more  than  he  had  been  changed,  without 
the  least  premeditation,  by  that  little  rencontre  with  Dick 
pompton,  to  which  we  have  already  been  unbidden  witnesses. 
Absorbed  as  poor  Eleanor  Hill  was  in  her  own  situation,  she 
could  scarcely  suppress  a  scream  when  she  saw  the  aspect  of  a 
man  who  always  appeared  before  her  so  differently ;  and  there 
was  fright  as  well  as  concern  in  her  voice  as  she  said  : 

"Why,  Carlton  Brand  I  Good  heaven  I— -what  has  hap- 
pened to  you  ?" 

"  Much,  Eleanor  I"  answered  the  lawyer,  dropping  into  a 
chair  with  every  indication  of  weariness,  and  wiping  his 
heated  brow  with  a  handkerchief  which  showed  that  it  had 
been  soiled  in  removing  some  of  the  grime  from  his  clothing. 

"Your  clothes  are  torn— your  face  is  swollen!  Have  you 
been  attacked  ? — beaten  ?  Are  you  seriously  hurt  ?"  inquired 
the  girl,  coming  close  to  him  and  laying  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  with  the  affectionate  anxiety  which  a  sister  might 
have  shown.  These  women  have  no  bounds  to  that  sympathy 
which  alternately  makes  them  angels  and  lures  them  on  the 
road  to  be  fiends  ;  and  there  is  probably  no  true  w^oman,  who 
had  ever  been  wife,  sweetheart  or  mother,  but  would  forget 
at  least  one  pang  of  her  pain  on  the  rack,  in  sympathy  for 
Bome  wronged  and  suffering  person  who  approached  her  I 

"  Oh,  no  !"  and  Carlton  Brand  tried  to  laugh  and  made  a 
miserable  failure  of  the  attempt,  with  his  bruised  face  and 
swollen  mouth.     "  Do  not  be  alarmed,  Eleanor.     I  have  simply 

been  in  a  little  encounter  with  one  of  my  neighbors,  and I 

scarcely  know  what  has  happened— I  believe  my  clothes  are 
torn  and  I  suppose  that  I  am  disfigured  a  little." 

"  Disfigured  a  little  !  Good  heaven,  I  should  think  you 
were  !"  said  the  girl,  coming  still  closer  and  looking  into  his 
face.  As  she  did  so,  the  eyes  of  the  lawyer,  not  too  blood- 
shot for  sight  if  they  were  for  grace  of  aspect,  detected  the 


134  THE      COWARD. 

BwoUen  condition  of  her  face,  the  fearful  redness  of  her  cye3, 
and  the  various  symptoms  which  told  through  what  a  storm 
of  shame  and  sorrow  she  had  lately  been  passing.  He  started 
to  his  feet  at  once,  grasping  her  hand  : 

"  Eleanor,  you  are  worse  hurt  than  myself  !  Tell  me  what 
has  happened  I     Has  he  been  torturing  you  again  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  the  poor  girl — "  worse  than  torturing 
me  !  I  could  bear  his  personal  cruelty,  for  I  have  grown 
used  to  it.  But  he  has  just  made  me  lose  my  last  hope  in 
life,  and  I  have  nothing  left  me  but  to  die  !" 

''  Your  last  hope  V  echoed  Carlton  Brand.  "  What  ?  Has 
Mr.  Bladesden — " 

"Mr.  Bladesden  has  just  been  here,"  answered  Eleanor 
Hill,  choking  down  the  grief  and  indignation  that  w^ere  so 
painfully  combating  each  other  in  her  throat,  dropping  her 
head  as  she  had  done  a  few  minutes  before  in  the  presence 
of  the  merchant,  and  holding  out  in  her  hand  the  crushed 
letter  which  Bladesden  had  dropped  as  he  left  the  house. 
*'  Mr.  Bladesden  has  just  been  here,  and  he  brought  this  letter 
to  read  to  me.  It  had  been  sent  to  his  store,  and  he  received 
it  this  morning.  You  can  see,  after  reading  it,  what  hope  in 
life  he  has  left  me  !" 

"  Curse  him  I  He  deserves  eternal  perdition,  and  will 
find  it !" 

Carlton  Brand  had  momentarily  forgotten  his  own  troubles, 
in  the  evident  anguish  of  the  young  girl,  just  as  a  few  mo- 
ments before  she  had  merged  all  those  sorrows  in  anxiety  for 
his  personal  safety.  He  took  the  letter  she  handed,  smoothed 
out  the  crumpled  folds  made  in  it  by  the  grasp  of  anger  and 
shame,  and  read  the  damning  words  that  follow — words  so 
black  and  dastardly  that  one  of  the  fiends  from  the  lower  pit 
might  come  back  to  earth  to  clear  away  from  his  name  the 
suspicion  that  he  had  ever  penned  them.  A  few  sentences 
of  this  bona  fide  communication  are  necessarily  omitted,  in 
an  interest  easily  understood  : 


THE      COWARD.  135 

West  Philadelphia,  June  — ,  1SG3.    ; 
Mb.  Nathan  Bladesden  : 

Sir  : — You  are  a  mercliant  of  respectal)ility,  as  vfell  as  a  member 
of  the  Society  of  Friends — a  society  for  wliicli  I  have  the  highest 
respect,  although  I  do  not  happen  to  have  been  born  a  member  of 
it.  I  should  very  much  regret  to  see  you  made  the  victim  of  a 
designing  woman,  and  linked  for  life  to  one  who  would  bring  dis- 
grace upon  your  name  and  family.  Report  says  that  you  are  en- 
gaged to  be  married,  or  that  you  very  probably  may  be  so  at  an 
early  period,  to  Miss  Eleanor  Hill,  the  ward  for  some  years  of  Dr. 
Philip  Pomeroy,  and  who  is  still  resident  in  the  house  of  that  medi- 
cal gentleman.  I  suppose  that  you  know  very  little  of  the  early 
history  of  the  young  lady,  as,  if  you  had  known,  you  would  never 
have  allowed  yourself  to  be  entangled  in  that  manner.  Her  father 
left  her  a  few  thousands  of  dollars  in  property,  which  she  no  doubt 
has  ttie  reputation  of  still  possessing,  while  I  have  very  good  reason 
to  know  that  it  has  really  all  (or  nearly  all)  been  used  up  in  un- 
fortunate speculations  by  different  persons  to  whom  she  intrusted 
it,  and  that  she  is  little  else  than  a  beggar,  except  as  the  Doctor 
olfers  her  a  home.  As  to  her  personal  character,  which  is  the  thing 
of  greatest  consequence  at  the  present  moment, — Miss  Hill  was  a 
very  giddy  girl,  and  many  of  her  friends  had  fears  for  her  future  ; 
but  none  of  them  foresaw  what  would  indeed  be  the  issue  of  the 
unfortunate  situation  in  which  she  was  placed.  I  am  writing  this 
letter,  as  you  must  be  aware,  for  no  purposes  of  my  own,  and  simply 
to  serve  an  honorable  man  who  seems  to  have  been  tricked  and 
cajoled  by  unscrupulous  people.  As  a  consequence,  I  must  ask  of  you 
as  a  right  which  you  cannot  disregard,  that  you  will  not  show  this 
letter  to  Dr.  Pomeroy,  who  might  know  enough  of  the  direction  from 
which  such  a  revelation  would  be  likeliest  to  come,  to  awaken  his 
suspicion  and  put  him  in  the  way  of  injuring  me.  This  promised, 
I  now  go  on  to  state  what  you  will  never  cease  to  thank  me  for 
communicating  to  you,  if  you  are  the  high-toned  man  of  honor  that 
I  suppose.  Dr.  Pomeroy  is  well  known  to  be  a  man  of  somewhat 
violent  passions  ;  and  though  I  believe  that  his  conduct  has  been 
nearly  spotless  during  his  professional  career,  yet  there  are  stains 
against  him  for  which  he  is  probably  the  sorriest  of  men  in  his 
calmer  moments.  Miss  Hill,  as  I  have  said,  was  giddy  and  thought- 
less, if  no  worse  ;  and  very  soon  after  the  death  of  her  father,  those 
who  happened  to  see  her  in  company  with  her  guardian,  noticed 
that  she  paid  him  attentions  which  showed  a  very  warm  personal 
attachment,  while  he  received  them  as  a  bachelor  man  of  the  world 


136  THE      COWARD. 

could  not  very  well  avoid  receiving  gucli  marks  of  regard  from  a 
young  and  pretty  girl.  How  long  this  went  on,  I  am  not  at  liberty 
to  say,  even  if  I  have  any  means  of  knowing  :  it  is  enough  that,  to 
my  knowledge  and  that  of  more  than  one  person  with  whom  you 
are  acquainted,  the  natural  result  followed.  If  there  was  any  se- 
duction, I  should  be  puzzled  to  say  on  which  side  the  art  was  used  ; 
but  perhaps  when  you  remember  that  the  lady  has,  during  all  your 
acquaintance  with  her,  (at  least  I  presume  so,  from  your  continuing 
to  visit  her,  j  passed  herself  off  on  you  as  pure  enough  to  be  worthy 
of  the  honor  of  your  hand,  you  may  be  able  to  form  some  idea 
whether  she  might  not  have  been  quite  as  much  in  fault  as  her 
partner  in  crime.  I  say  "partner  in  crime,"  as  I  have  no  wish  or 
motive  to  shelter  Dr.  Pomeroy.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  say  more, 
and  indeed  my  pen  hesitates  when  I  attempt  to  set  down  what  I 
consider  so  lamentable,  as  well  as  so  culpable.  But  I  must  go  on, 
after  going  thus  far.  The  secret  of  Miss  Hill's  remaining  at  the 
house  of  Dr.  Pomeroy  after  her  attainment  of  majority,  is  that  a 
guilty  attachment  and  connection  has  existed  between  them  for  not 
less  than  five  years  past,  unsuspected  by  most  persons  who  know 
them,  but  well  known  to  myself  and  some  others,  at  least  one  of 
whom  has  been  the  accidental  witness  of  their  crjme.  If  you  should 
think  proper  to  tax  her  with  this  depravity,  and  she  should  choose 
to  deny  this  statement,  by  way  of  convincing  yourself  whether  this 
is  a  foul  calumny  or  a  bitter  truth,  ask  her  *  *  -x- 

******■»•»■)* 

I  hope  and  believe  that  you  will  take  the  warning  that  I  have  thus 
conveyed,  and  not  give  yourself  any  trouble  to  discover  the  writer, 
who  does  not  conceal  his  name  from  any  other  motives  than  those 
which  you  can  understand  and  approve.  A  Tkue  Fkiexd. 

Carlton  Brand  read  through  this  precious  document  with- 
out speaking — a  document  not  worse  in  motive  than  all  other 
anonymous  communications,  any  one  of  which  should  subject 
the  perpetrator,  if  discovered,  to  cropped  ears  and  slitted 
^tongue, — but  worse  than  all  others  of  its  evil  kind  in  the  atro- 
city of  its  surrounding  circumstances,  as  the  reader  will  have 
no  difficulty  in  believing  when  a  little  additional  light  is  shed 
u'pon  the  personality  of  the  writer  by  the  chapters  immediately 
following. 


THE      COWARD.  137 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  Return   to   1856— Nicholas   Hill,  Iron   Merchant 

His  Death,  his  Daughter  and   his   Friend — How  Dr. 

POMEROY    became   A    GUARDIAN,    AND    HOW    HE  DISCHARGED 

THAT  Duty— A  Rum  and  an  Awakening— The  market 

VALUE   OF    DUNDERHAVEN   STOCK    IN    1858. 

* 

Seven  years  before  1863,  and  consequently  in  1856,  died 
Nicholas  Hill,  a  merchant  of  Philadelphia,  whose  place  of 
business  on  Market  Street  above  Third  had  been  the  seat  of  a 
respectable  though  not  remarkably  extensive  trade,  for  nearly 
a  quarter  of  a  century.  His  trade  had  been  in  iron  and  hard- 
ware, but  the  material  of  his  stock  by  no  means  entered  into 
his  own  composition,  for  he  was  a  man  somewhat  noted  for  his 
quiet  and  retiring  manners  and  a  pliancy  of  spirit  making  him 
at  times  the  victim  of  the  unscrupulously  plausible.  His  pri- 
vate fortune  met  with  sundry  serious  drawbacks  on  account 
of  this  weakness,  though  a  generally  prosperous  business 
enabled  him  to  keep  intact  the  few  thousands  which  he  had 
already  won,  and  gradually  if  slowly  to  add  to  the  accumula- 
tion. He  had  remained  a  widower  since  the  death  of  his 
wife  ten  years  before  his  own  demise  ;  and  his  pleasant  though 
quiet  little  house  on  Locust  Street,  had  only  contained  one 
member  of  his  family  besides  himself,  for  years  before  his 
death— his  only  daughter  and  only  child,  Eleanor. 

The  warmest  and  longest-continued  friendships  are  very 
often  formed  by  persons  diametrically  opposed  in  character 
and  disposition ;  and  the  rule  seemed  to  hold  good  in  the  in- 
stance under  notice.  A  friendship  formed  several  years 
before  between  the  merchant  and  Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy,  when 
the  latter  was  a  practising  physician  resident  in  the  city 
proper,  had  never  died  out  or  become  weakened,  at  least  in 
the  heart  of  the  confiding  and  quiet  dealer  in  iron,  and  there 
was  no  reason  to  believe  that  the  sentiment  had  been  more 


138  THE      C  0  W  A  K  1). 

transient  in  the  breast  of  the  physician.  Mr.  Hill  had  been 
suffering  under  the  incipient  threats  of  consumption,  for  years, 
and  the  doctor  had  been  his  medical  attendant,  as  before  the 
death  of  his  wife  he  had  filled  the  same  confidential  relation 
towards  that  lady  and  the  other  members  of  his  household. 
Neither  personally  nor  by  marriage  had  the  merchant  any  near 
relatives  in  the  city  or  its  vicinity  ;  and  his  retiring  disposi- 
tion was  such  that  while  he  made  many  friends  in  the  ordi- 
nary acceptation  of  the  word,  he  had  few  w^ho  stood  in  that 
peculiar  relation  which  the  French,  supplying  a  noun  which 
has  scarcely  yet  crept  into  our  own  language,  designate  as 
les  intimes. 

It  was  not  strange,  then,  that  when  Nicholas  Hill  was  sud- 
denly seized  with  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs  and  brought  home 
in  an  almost  dying  condition  from  his  store,  one  afternoon  in 
November,  1856,  Dr.  Pomeroy,  who  was  hurriedly  summoned 
to  his  aid,  was  summoned  quite  as  much  in  the  capacity  of 
friend  as  in  that  of  medical  attendant.  The  story  of  life  or 
death  was  soon  told.  The  merchant  had  believed,  from  the 
moment  of  attack,  that  his  day  of  probation  was  over ;  and, 
apart  from  his  natural  anxiety  for  the  welfare  of  his  only 
child,  there  was  little  tie  to  bind  the  sufferer  to  earth.  His 
wife — his  wife  that  day  as  much  as  she  had  been  at  any 
period  of  their  wedded  life, — had  long  been  awaiting  him,  as 
he  believed,  in  a  better  world  ;  and  there  is  something  in  the 
facility  with  which  those  quiet,  good  people,  who  seem  never 
to  have  enjoyed  existence  with  the  fiery  zest  which  tingles  in 
finger  and  lip  of  the  sons  of  pleasure  and  sorrow,  give  up 
their  hold  upon  being  and  pass  away  into  the  infinite  unknown 
which  lies  beyond  the  dark  valley, — something  that  may  well 
make  it  a  matter  of  question  whether  theirs  is  not  after  all  the 
golden  secret  of  human  happiness,  for  which  all  ages  have 
be.en  studying  and  delving. 

The  doctor  came,  with  that  rapidity  which  was  usual  with 
him,  and  with  every  mark  of  intense  intejest  on  his  face  and 
in  his  general   demeanor.     He  found   the   invalid   sinking 


THE      COWARD.  '  139 

rapidly,  and  his  attendants,  the  weeping  Eleanor,  then  a 
handsome,  promising  but  defectively-educated  girl  of  near 
eighteen,  and  two  or  three  of  the  ladies  of  the  near  neighbor- 
hood who  had  gathered  in*to  tender  their  services  when  it 
was  known  that  the  merchant  had  been  brought  home  in  a 
dying  condition.  A  few  words  from  the  sufferer,  uttered  in 
a  low  tone  almost  in  the  ear  of  the  stooping  physician,  and 
then  all  the  others  were  sent  out  of  the  room  except  his 
daughter,  whose  pleading  gesture,  asking  to  be  allowed  to 
remain  within  the  room  was  not  disregarded,  but  who  was 
motioned  by  the  doctor  to  take  her  place  at  the  window, 
beyond  supposed  hearing  of  the  words  that  were  to  pass 
between  the  two  friends. 

"  Tell  me  the  exact  truth,"  said  the  low  voice  of  Nicholas 
Hill,  when  these  dispositions  had  been  made.  "  I  am  pre- 
pared to  hear  any  judgment  which  your  lips  may  speak. 
There  is  no  hope  for  me  ? — I  am  dying  ?" 

Either  the  doctor  could  not  speak,  or  he  would  not.  He 
merely  bowed  his  head  in  a  manner  that  the  questioner  well 
understood. 

^  "  So  I  thought,  from  the  first,"  said  the  dying  man.  ''  The 
life  blood  does  not  flow  away  in  that  manner  for  nothing. 
And  I  do  not  know  that  I  regret  the  end,  for  I  have  lived 
almost  as  long  as  I  could  make  myself  useful,  and  I  think  I 
am  as  nearly  prepared  to  die  as  poor,  fallen  humanity  can 
hope  to  be." 

"  I  hope  and  believe  that  you  are  indeed  prepared  to  die, 
my  dear,  good  friend,"  answered  the  doctor,  with  feeling  in 
his  tone,  and  the  feeble  hand  of  the  sufferer  meanwhile  within 
his.  *'I  cannot  hold  out  a  false  hope  to  you— you  cannot 
live.  How  gladly  science  and  friendship  would  both  join 
hands  in  doing  something  to  keep  you  in  the  world,  you 
know;  but  how  much  we  shall  all  miss  you  and  grieve  for 
you,  you  do  not  know." 

^^  ''That  you  will  miss  me,    I  hope,"  said  the  dying  man. 
"  But  there  is  no  occasion  whatever  to  grieve  for  me.     It  is 


140  THE      COWARD. 

a  peaceful  end,  I  think,  and  in  God's  own  good  time.     I  have 

but  one  anxiety." 

He  paused,  and  the  doctor  nodded  his  head  towards  the 
Bide  of  the  room  where  poor  Eleanor  was  sitting,  trying  to 
distract  her  own  thoughts  by  looking  out  of  the  window. 
The  father  saw  that  he  understood  him,  and  pressed  the  hand 
that  he  held. 

"  Yes,  you  have  guessed  rightly,"  he  said.  "  My  only- 
anxiety  is  for  the  fate  of  my  child.  Eleanor  is  a  good  girl, 
but  she  is  yet  very  young,  and  she  will  need  protection." 

"  She  shall  find  it !"  said  the  doctor,  solemnly. 

The  face  of  the  dying  man  lit  up  with  an  expression  of  the 
sincerest  pleasure  and  happiness,  and  his  feeble  grasp  again 
pressed  the  hand  of  high  health  which  lay  so  near  his  own 
ebbing  pulse. 

"  I  believe  you  and  I  thank  you,  my  friend  as  well  as 
physician,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  not  been  afraid  to  think  of 
this  day,  as  they  tell  me  that  so  many  are  ;  and  my  affairs 
are  in  some  degree  prepared  for  it.  I  have  a  handsome 
property,  though  not  a  large  one,  and  you  will  find  a  will 
lying  in  the  private  drawer  of  the  safe  at  the  store.  With 
the  exception  of  a  few  legacies  to  friends,  a  small  one  to 
yourself  included — it  all  goes  to  Eleanor,  and  you  will  find 
yourself  named  my  executor." 

"A  confidence  which  flatters  me,  and  which  I  hope  I  shall 
deserve,"  said  the  doctor,  as  the  enfeebled  man  again  paused 
for  a  moment. 

"I  kiiow  that  you  will,"  the  sufferer  resumed.  "Thanks 
to  my  property,  Eleanor  will  not  be  a  burthen  to  you, 
except  in  the  demand  of  care.  Her  few  relatives,  as  you 
know,  are  distant  ones,  and  none  of  them  reside  nearer  than 
California.  There  will  be  none  to  interfere  with  you  in 
guiding  her  aright,  keeping  her  pure  in  her  remaining  years 
of  girlhood,  and  watching  over  her  until  she  becomes  the  wife 
of  some  honorable  man,  or  in  some  other  way  ceases  to  need 
your  protection. " 


THE      COWARD.  141 

"  I  accept  the  charge  as  freely  as  it  is  given,  and  I  will 
perform  it  as  I  would  for  one  of  my  own  blood  I"  was  the 
solemn  answer  of  the  medical  man. 

"  I  knew  that  before  I  asked,  or  I  should  never  have  asked 
at  all  1"  said  the  dying  man.  "Eleanor,  my  daughter,  come 
here." 

The  young  girl  obeyed  and  knelt  beside  the  bed,  striving 
to  restrain  her  sobs  and  tears.  The  father  laid  his  hand  on 
her  head  and  gently  smoothed  the  masses  of  dark  brown  hair 
with  fingers  that  would  so  soon  be  beyond  capacity  for  such 
a  caress. 

"Eleanor,"  he  said,  "you  are  almost  a  woman  in  years, 
and  you  must  be  altogether  a  woman,  now.  I  am  going  to 
leave  you — I  may  leave  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Oh,  I  know  it,  father ! — dear,  dear  father  I  Oh,  what 
will  become  of  me  ?"  and  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  restrain 
herself  she  sobbed  and  choked  piteously. 

"  You  will  be  cared  for,  my  child,  not  only  by  heaven  but 
by  kind  friends  ;  and  you  must  not  grieve  so  over  what  does 
not  grieve  me  at  all,"  said  the  departing  parent.  "Dr.  Pome- 
roy  is  to  be  the  executor  of  my  estate,  and  your  guardian. 
Love  and  obey  him,  my  daughter,  in  every  thing,  as  you 
would  love  and  obey  me  if  I  was  allowed  to  remain  with  you. 
Do  you  understand  me  ? — do  you  promise  me,  Eleanor  ?'' 

"  I  do  understand  you  ! — I  do  promise  you,  dear,  dear 
father  I"  sobbed  the  young  girl.  "  I  will  obey  Dr.  Philip, 
and  try  to  be  good  all  my  life,  so  that  I  can  meet  you  where 
I  know  that  you  are  going  to  meet  my  mother." 

"  My  dear,  good  child  ! — you  and  the  doctor  have  made  me 
Bo  happy  !  Kiss  me  now,  Eleanor,  and  then  let  me  sleep  a 
few  moments."  And  directl}^  after  that  kiss  of  agonized  love 
was  given,  he  fell  back  upon  his  pillow — as  if  he  was  indeed 
dropping  into  a  quiet  sleep;  but  the  doctor  felt  the  hand  that 
lay  within  his  relax  its  pressure,  one  or  two  sighs  fluttered 
from  the  quivering  lips,  while  a  light  foam  tinged  with  blood 


142  THE      COWARD. 

crept  up  to  them  and  bubbled  there,  and  the  moment  after 
Eleanor  Hill  was  fatherless. 

And  jet  the  poor  girl  who  sobbed  so  heart-brokenly  over 
the  corpse  of  one  who  had  been  to  her  the  truest  and  kindest 
of  parents,  was  not  fatherless  in  that  desolate  sense  in  which 
the  word  is  so  often  used.  The  ties  of  blood  might  be  rudely 
broken,  but  did  not  the  hand  of  true  friendship  stand  ready  to 
assert  itself  ?  Had  not  Philip  Pomeroy  promised  the  friend 
of  years,  that  he  would  be  father  and  protector  to  her — that 
he  would  shelter  her  with  all  the  power  given  to  his  ripe 
manhood,  and  hold  her  pure  as  the  very  angels,  so  far  as  he 
ha(\  power  to  direct  her  course  ?  Xo — not  fatherless  :  the 
weeping  girl,  in  the  midst  of  her  sobs  and  unfelt  caresses  over 
what  had  once  been  the  father  of  her  idolatry,  appreciated  the 
truth  and  was  partially  comforted. 

It  so  chanced  that  Dr.  Pomeroy,  in  his  domestic  relations, 
was  admirably  placed  for  offering  a  home  to  the  daughter  of 
his  dead  friend.  Marrying  did  not  seem  to  run  in  the  Pomeroy 
family,  for  not  only  was  the  doctor  a  confirmed  bachelor,  some 
years  past  middle  age,  but  his  only  living  sister  had  kept  her- 
self free,  like  him,  of  matrimonial  chains,  and  presided  pleas- 
antly over  his  household  under  her  maiden  name  of  Miss 
Hester  Pomeroy.  While  the  removal  of  a  young  girl  of 
eighteen  to  a  bachelor's  residence,  without  the  cover  of  female 
society,  might  have  seemed  grossly  improper  in  spite  of  the 
color  given  to  it  by  the  guardianship  so  lately  acquired,  there 
could  be  no  impropriety  whatever  in  her  becoming  the  com- 
panion and  to  some  extent  the  pupil  of  the  bachelor's  maiden 
sister  of  forty. 

Dr.  Pomeroy's  residence  was  at  that  time  within  the  city 
limits,  though  in  that  extreme  upper  section  bordering  on  the 
Schuylkill ;  but  his  practice  had  been  gradually  extending 
out  into  the  country  over  the  river;  and  ideas  long  cherished, 
of  a  residence  beyond  the  reach  of  the  noises  of  the  great  city, 
were  gradually  becoming  realized.  At  the  time  of  the  death 
of  his  friend,  that  mansion  which  it  has  just  been  our  sad 


THE      COWARD.  143 

privilege  to  enter,  was  in  the  course  of  erection  ;  and  in  the 
spring  which  followed  he  took  up  his  abode  within  it,  with 
his  sister,  his  ward,  and  that  array  of  domestics  necessary 
for  a  man  of  his  supposed  wealth  and  somewhat  expensive 
habits. 

It  did  indeed  seem  that  Eleanor  Hill  was  blessed  among 
orphans  if  not  among  women.     Her  tears  dried  easily,  as 
they  had  good  cause  to  do.     The  residence  to  which  she  had 
been  removed  was  a  very  handsome  and  even  a  luxurious 
one ;  Miss  Hester  Pomeroy  w^as  one  of  those  good  easy  souls 
who  neither  possess  any  strength  of  character  themselves  nor 
envy  it  in  others,— with  an  almost  idolizing  admiration  of  her 
gifted  and  popular  brother,  and  a  belief  that  no  movement  of  his 
could  be  other  than  the  best  possible  under  the  circumstances ; 
and  the  doctor  himself,  a  man  of  fine  education,  distinguished 
manners,  admitted  professional  skill,  and  an  uprightness  of 
carriage  which  seemed  to  more  than  atone  for  any  lack  of 
suavity  in  his  demeanor— the  doctor  himself  appeared  to  be 
anxious,  from  the  first,  that  no  shadow  of  accusation  should  lie 
against  his  name,  of  inattention  to  the  ward  committed  to  his 
charge.     From  the  day  of  her  coming  into  his  house,  when- 
ever  his   profesgional  engagements  would    allow,  he   spent 
much  time  in  the  society  of  Eleanor,  greatly  to  the  delight 
of  Miss  Hester,  who  had  thought  herself  very  unattractive 
company  and  wished  that  her  gifted  brother  had  some  one  in 
the  house  more  worthy  to  be  his  companion.     He  selected 
books  for  the  young  girl;  brought  home  others ;  directed  her 
studies  into  channels  calculated  to  form  her  mind  (at  least 
some  portions  of  it)  ;   invited  the  young  people  of  the  neigh- 
borhood to  meet  her ;  drove  her  out  frequently ;  took  such 
care  of  her  health  as  he  might  have  done  of  that  of  a  darlin- 
daughter  or  an  idolized  sweetheart;  and  gave  evidence  tha°t 
none  could  doubt,  of  his  intention  to  fulfil  in  the  most  liberal 
Jind  conscientious  manner  the  sacred  promises  he  had  made 
over  the  death-bed  of  her  father. 

To  the  youug  girl,  meanwhile    her  surroundings  became 


144      ,  THE      COWARD. 

Elysium.  She  had  warm  affections,  of  that  clinging  charac- 
ter which  finds  no  diflBculty  in  fastening  almost  anywhere  if 
permitted  time  and  quiet.  She  had  little  force  of  will  and 
still  less  of  that  serpent  wisdom  which  discerns  the  shadow 
of  danger  before  that  danger  really  approaches.  She  was 
equally  good,  by  nature,  and  weak  by  disposition — formed  of 
that  material  out  of  which  good  wives  and  mothers  are  so 
easily  made,  and  which  may,  on  the  other  hand,  be  fashioned 
so  easily  into  the  most  melancholy  semblance  of  lost  woman- 
hood. She  was  handsome,  if  not  strictly  beautiful,  and  the 
lips  of  her  guardian,  so  strict  to  most  others,  told  her  so  with 
smiles  and  low-breathed  words.  She  was  flattered  by  his 
preference,  paid  her  deferentially  in  public  and  yet  more  un- 
reservedly when  none  but  themselves  heard  the  words  he  ut- 
tered,— proud  to  be  thus  distinguished  by  one  so  attractire 
in  appearance  and  unimpeachable  in  position, — bound  to  him 
by  that  obedience  enjoined  by  her  dying  father,  and  by  that 
strong  tie  of  gratitude  which  she  felt  to  be  due  to  her  willing 
and  unrecompensed  protector, — and  brought  into  that  close 
communion  with  his  strong  mind  which  could  not  fail  to  sway 
an  unmeasured  influence  over  her,  by  those  studies  in  poetry, 
romance  and  philosophy  which  he  had  himself  directed. 

It  is  an  old  story,  and  melancholy  as  old.  Before  she  had 
been  six  months  an  inmate  of  the  house  of  Dr.  Pomeroy, 
Eleanor  Hill  loved  him  as  madly  as  young,  defenceless  and 
untrained  girlhood  can  love  that  which  supplies  its  best  ideal 
and  lures  it  on  by  the  most  specious  of  pretences.  Not  more 
than  that  time  had  elapsed,  when  she  would  have  plucked 
out  her  heart  and  laid  it  in  his  hand,  had  he  asked  it  and  had 
such  an  act  of  bodily  self-sacrifice  been  possible.  Less  than  a 
year,  and  the  tale  of  her  destiny  was  told.  For  weeks  before, 
the  words  of  her  "  guardian"  and  "  father"  had  been  such  as 
ill  became  either  relation,  but  not  warmer,  still,  than  the 
snared  heart  of  the  young  girl  craved  and  echoed.  Then 
came  that  promise  of  the  dearest  tie  on  earth,  which  falls  on 
the  ear  of  loving  woman  with  a  sweeter  sound  than  any  other 


/ 


THE      COWARD.  145 

ever  uttered  under  the  sun  or  stars.  He  loved  her — that 
proud,  high-spirited,  distinguished  man,  the  friend  of  her 
father,  and  the  man  for  whose  hand  (so  he  had  told  her,  not 
boastingly  but  in  pity,  and  so  she  had  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve) the  wealthiest,  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  arro- 
gant belles  of  Broad  Street  and  Girard  Avenue  had  been  will- 
ing to  barter  all  their  pride  and  all  their  coyness — he  loved 
her,  the  poor  young  and  comparatively  portionless  girl,  held 
her  worthy  to  be  his  wife,  and  was  willing  to  share  his  high 
destiny  with  her ! 

What  marvel  that  the  untutored  heart  beat  faster  than  its 
wont,  when  that  golden  gate  of  paradise  was  opened  in  ex- 
pectation to  her  eyes  ?  What  marvel  that  all  the  lessons  of 
childhood,  which  stood  between  her  and  obedience  to  tho 
master  of  her  destiny,  were  forgotten  or  only  remembered 
with  abhorrence  ?  What  marvel  that  the  past  became  a 
dream,  the  present  dull  and  unendurable,  and  only  the  deliri- 
ous future  worth  a  wish  or  a  thought  ?  What  marvel  that 
one  evening  when  the  full  moon  of  August  was  peeping  in 
through  the  trees  which  already  began  to  cast  their  shade 
over  the  new  home  into  the  room  where  the  "  guardian"  and 
the  "ward"  were  sitting  alone  together — when  the  air  seemed 
balm  and  the  earth  heaven — when  the  night-sounds  of  late 
summer  made  a  sadness  that  was  not  sorrow,  and  temptation 
put"  on  the  very  robes  of  holy  feeling  to  do  its  evil  work — 
when  the  lips  of  the  subtle,  bad,  unscrupulous  man  of  the 
world  repeated  words  as  sweet  as  they  were  unmeaning, 
promises  as  hollow  as  they  were  delicious  and  prayers  as  be- 
wildering as  they  were  sacrilegious — when  the  heart  of  the 
young  girl  had  proved  traitor  to  her  senses  and  all  the 
guardian  angels  of  her  maidenhood  had  fled  away  and  left  her 
to  a  conflict  for  which  she  had  neither  wisdom  nor  strength — 
what  marvel  that  the  moment  of  total  madness  came  to  one 
and  perhaps  to  both,  and  that  before  it  ended  Eleanor  Hill 
lay  upon  the  breast  of  her  destroyer,  a  poor  dishonored  thing, 
frightened,  delirious,  half-senseless,  and  yet  blindly  happier  in 
9 


146  THE      COWAPwD. 

her  shame  than  she  had  ever  been  while  the  white  doves  still 
folded  their  wings  above  her  I 

We  know  something  of  ends  and  something  of  intermediary 
occiirrences,  but  vcvj  little  of  beginnings.  The  common  eje 
can  sec  the  oak  from  a  tiny  sprout  to  its  lordship  of  the  forest, 
but  none  may  behold  the  first  movement  of  the  germ  in  the 
buried  acorn.  The  unnatural  rebellion  of  Absalom,  the 
reckless  treason  of  Arnold,  the  struggle  for  universal  empire 
of  Xapoleon,  all  stand  out  boldly  on  the  historic  page,  as 
they  appeared  at  the  moment  of  culmination  ;  but  who  sees 
the  disobedient  son  of  David  when  he  walks  -out  into  the 
night  with  the  first  unfilial  curse  upon  his  lips,  or  the  arch- 
traitor  of  the  Western  Continent  as  he  starts  from  his  sleep 
with  the  first  thought  of  his  black  deed  creeping  under  his 
hair  and  curdling  his  blood,  or  the  victor  of  Marengo  nursing 
his  first  far-off  vision  of  the  dangerous  glory  yet  to  be  !  We 
can  know  nothing  more  of  the  beginnings  of  vice  in  the  hearts 
of  the  great  criminals  of  private  life.  It  can  never  be  known, 
until  all  other  secrets  are  unveiled  before  the  eyes  of  a 
startled  universe,  whether  Dr.  Pomeroy,  (no  imaginary  char- 
acter, but  a  personage  too  real  and  very  slightly  disguised), 
in  this  ruin  wrought  by  his  hand  had  been  acting  the  part  of  \ 
an  unmitigated  scoundrel  from  the  beginning,  a  lie  upon  his 
lip  and  mockery  in  his  heart  when  he  promised  the  dying 
Nicholas  Hill  protection  to  his  helpless  daughter,  and  every 
act  and  word  of  his  intercourse  with  her  subtly  calculated  to 
bring  about  the  one  unholy  end, — or  whether  he  had  merely 
X)ermitted  himself,  without  early  premeditation,  to  do  the  un- 
pardonable evil  which  proved  so  convenient.  For  the  welfare 
of  the  victim,  it  seemed  a  question  of  little  consequence  :  for 
the  credit  of  humanity,  alw^ays  enough  disgraced,  at  best,  by 
its  robbers  and  cut-throats  of  the  moral  highway,  it  may 
be  at  least  worth  a  thought.  After  events  make  it  doubtful 
whether  the  very  worst  had  not  been  intended  and  labored 
for  from  the  outset ;  and  certain  it  is  that  if  there  had  before 
been  one  redeeming  trait  to  temper  the  moral  baseness  of 


THE      COWARD.  147 

Philip  Pdmeroy,  from  the  moment  when  that  ruin  was  accom- 
plished no  obstacle  of  goodness  hindered  his  way  towards 
the  end  of  the  irredeemable.  If  he  had  before  kept  terms 
with  Eleanor  Hill  and  his  own  soul,  he  kept  those  terms  no 
longer. 

The  poor  girl  had  of  course  no  right  to  be  happy  in  her 
new  and  guilty  relation,  and  yet  she  was  so  for  a  time — 
almost  entirely  happy.  She  had  been  wooed  and  won  (oh, 
how  fearfully  won  I)  under  an  explicit  promise  of  marriage 
and  with  continual  repetitions  of  words  of  respect  which  left 
her  no  room  to  doubt  the  good  faith  of  the  man  who  uttered 
them.  She  was  more  than  a  little  weak,  as  has  already  been 
said ;  very  unsuspicious  and  clinging  in  her  trust;  and  neither 
wise  enough  to  know  that  the  man  who  respected  her  suflS- 
ciently  to  make  her  his  wife,  no  insurmountable  obstacle  lying 
in  his  way,  would  have  made  her  so  before  laying  his  hand  on 
the  hem  of  the  garment  of  her  purity, — or  precise  enough  to 
feel  that  any  disgrace  had  really  fallen  upon  her,  which 
w^ould  not  be  removed  the  moment  that  promise  of  marriage 
was  fulfilled.  Then,  by  a  natural  law  which  can  be  easily 
understood  if  it  cannot  be  explained,  the  young  girl  a  thou- 
sand times  more  deeply  loved  the  master  of  her  destiny  be- 
cause he  had  made  himself  entirely  so  ;  and  for  a  time,  at 
least,  the  conduct  of  the  victor  towards  his  helpless  captive 
was  full  of  such  exquisite  tenderness  in  private  that  she  could 
not  have  found  room  for  a  regret  had  her  heart  even  revolted 
at  the  situation  in  which  she  was  placed.  He  did  not  speak 
of  an  immediate  fulfilment  of  his  promise  of  marriage — no, 
bat  he  had  before  hinted  that  owing  to  certain  temporary  cir- 
cumstances (oh,  those  "  temporary  circumstances" !)  the  hour 
when  he  could  make  her  his  own  before  the  world  must  be 
yet  a  little  delayed  ;  and  so  the  young  heart  took  no  fright  at 
the  procrastination.  Good  Miss  Hester,  meanwhile,  saw 
nothing  suspicious  and  suspected  nothing  improper.  Per- 
haps she  saw  a  deeper  light  of  tenderness  in  the  eyes  of  the 
poor  betrayed  girl,  when  they  beamed  upon  him  who  should 


148  THE      COWARD. 

have  been  her  husband ;  and  perhaps  she  saw  that  her  brother 
treated  his  ward  with  even  more  delicate  attention  than  he 
had  shown  during  the  months  before;  but  the  spinster's  eyes 
had  no  skill  to  read  beneath  the  mask  of  either,  and  if  she 
thought  upon  the  subject  at  all  her  impressions  were  not 
likely  to  go  farther  than  the  mental  remark  :  "  How  good 
Philip  is  to  Eleanor  ;  how  obedient  to  him  she  seems  to  be  ; 
and  how  happy  for  both  that  he  ever  became  her  guardian 
and  she  his  charge  !" 

Under  such  circumstances  the  awakening,  even  a  partial 
one,  could  not  come  otherwise  than  very  slowly.  But  unless 
the  young  girl  was  an  absolute  idiot  or  utterly  depraved,  an 
awakening  must  come  at  some  period  or  other.  Though 
weak  and  ill-trained,  Eleanor  Hill  was  by  no  means  an  idiot ; 
and  the  angels  of  heaven  could  look  down  and  see  that 
through  all  that  had  occurred  there  had  been  no  depravity  in 
her  soul,  no  coarse,  sensual  passion  in  her  nature.  If  she 
had  fallen,  she  had  been  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  man's  un- 
scrupulous libertinism,  and  offering  up  the  incense,  mean- 
while, of  a  good,  yielding,  compliant,  worshipping  heart. 
The  moral  perceptions  may  have  been  blunted,  but  they  were 
not  annihilated ;  the  reason  may  have  been  choked  and  dizzied 
in  the  flood  of  feeling,  but  it  was  immortal  and  could  not  be 
drowned. 

Months  had  elapsed  after  the  culmination  of  their  inter- 
course, before  the  sense  of  right  became  strong  enough  and 
the  heart  bold  enough,  for  the  young  girl  to  hint  at  the  fulfil- 
ment of  what  had  been  so  long  delayed.  The  answer  was  a 
passionate  kiss  and  an  assurance  that  "  only  a  little  time 
more  should  elapse — just  yet  it  would  not  be  prudent  and  was 
In  fact  impossible."  Eleanor  wondered:  she  had  not  yet 
learned  to  doubt ;  and  for  a  time  she  kept  silent.  Again,  a 
few  weeks  later,  and  the  question  was  repeated.  This  time 
a  light  laugh  met  her  ear,  and  there  was  more  of  the  master 
toying  with  his  slave  or  the  spoiled  boy  trifling  with  his  play- 
thing, than  there  had  been  in  the  first  instance.     Still  the 


THE      COWARD.  149 

promise  was  repeated,  and  still  there  were  "insurmountable 
obstacles."  Another  interval  of  silence,  then  a  third  request, 
this  time  with  tears,  that  he  would  do  her  the  justice  he  had 
promised.  To  this  ill-nature  responded,  and  for  the  first  time 
the  young  girl  learned  what  a  claw  of  pride  and  arrogance 
lay  folded  in  the  velvet  palm  of  the  tiger.  She  shrunk  away 
within  herself,  at  his  first  harsh  word,  almost  believing  that 
she  must  have  committed  some  wrong  in  speaking  to  him  of 
his  delayed  promise ;  and  when  he  kissed  her  at  the  end  of 
that  conversation  and  said:  "There,  run  away  and  do  not 
bother  me  about  it  when  I  am  worried  and  busy  I"  she  almost 
felt — heaven- help  her  poor,  weak  heart  I — that  that  kiss  was 
one  of  needed  pardon  I 

The  dullest  eyes  will  recognize  at  last  what  only  the  quick 
and  accustomed  discern  at  first.  Eleanor  Hill  had  been  blind, 
but  her  eyes  gradualh'  opened, — with  an  agony  in  the  first 
gleams  of  light,  of  which  her  yielding,  compliant  nature  had 
before  given  little  promise.  Nearly  two  years  had  elapsed 
after  her  becoming  the  ward  of  Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy,  and 
more  than  one  year  after  that  fatal  era  in  her  own  destiny, 
when  the  wronged  girl,  then  twenty  and  within  only  twelve 
months  of  her  legal  majority,  at  last  sounded  the  depths  of 
that  man's  nature  sufiBciently  to  know  that  he  had  been  in- 
venting the  existence  of  obstacles — that  he  had  never  intended 
to  marry  her,  at  least  at  any  near  period.  At  that  moment 
of  discovery  a  higher  and  prouder  nature  than  hers  might 
have  been  moved  to  personal  upbraiding,  despair  and  perhaps 
to  suicide  :  with  Eleanor  Hill  the  only  result  was  that  a  sense 
of  shame,  before  kept  in  abeyance,  came  in  and  settled  down 
upon  her,  making  her  more  humble  than  angry  or  indignant, 
and  unnerving  her  instead  of  bracing  her  mind  anew  for  any 
conflict  that  might  arise  in  the  future.  Aware,  at  last,  of  his 
deception,  she  could  not  quite  believe  in  her  guardian's  utter 
baseness;  and  she  still  hoped  that  though  he  might  demand 
his  own  time  for  the  fulfilment  of  that  promise  which  had 
won  her  from  herself,  in  his  own  time  he  would  render  her 


150  THE      COWARD. 

that  justice  in  reality  so  poor  but  to  her  so  full  of  compensa- 
tion for  all  the  past. 

"Would  it  not  seem,  even  to  one  most  fully  acquainted  with 
all  the  falsehood  of  the  betrayer  and  all  the  cruelty  of  the 
torturer,  that  the  cup  of  that  man's  infamy  was  nearly  filled  ? 
And  yet — sorrow  that  the  bitter  truth  must  be  recorded  ! 
— not  a  tithe  of  that  which  was  to  curse  him  before  the  end, 
has  yet  been  indicated.  Slowly  and  surely  the  blackening 
crimes  pile  up,  when  the  love  of  virtue  and  the  fear  of  heaven 
have  both  faded  out  from  the  human  heart ;  and  who  can 
measure  the  height  to  which  those  mountain  masses  of  guilt 
may  tower,  after  the  first  foundations  have  been  laid  in  one 
unrepented  wrong,  and  before  the  coming  of  that  day  when 
the  criminal  must  call  upon  those  very  mountains  to  fall  and 
bury  him  away  from  the  wrath  that  is  inevitable  1 

Dr.  Pomeroy  came  home  late  one  evening  in  December, 
1858.  Hester  had  long  been  in  bed,  and  Eleanor,  as  was  her 
habit,  had  waited  up  for  his  return.  Some  weeks  had  now 
elapsed  since  her  discovery  of  his  deception,  but  hope  had 
not  yet  died  out,  nor  had  all  her  confidence  been  lost  in  that 
aftectiou  for  her  which  she  believed  underlay  all  the  impro- 
priety of  his  treatment.  So  far,  except  in  the  one  particular, 
he  had  treated  her  with  almost  unvarying  kindness ;  and 
while  that  pleasant  status  existed  and  hope  had  yet  a  little 
point  for  the  clinging  of  her  tenacious  fingers,  it  w^as  not  in 
the  nature  of  the  young  girl  to  despair.  She  met  him  at  the 
door,  as  she  had  done  on  so  many  previous  occasions,  assisted 
him  to  divest  himself  of  the  rough  wrappers  by  which  he  had 
been  sheltered  from  the  winter  wind,  and  when  at  last  he 
dropped  into  his  cushioned  chair  before  the  grate,  which  had 
been  kept  broadly  aglow  to  minister  to  his  comfort,  took  her 
place  half  by  his  side  and  half  at  his  feet. 

Perhaps  there  was  some  malevolent  spirit  who  on  that 
occasion,  before  the  glow  of  the  winter  fire,  once  more  brought 
to  the  lips  of  the  poor  girl  that  subject  alwa3's  lying  so  near 
her  heart — marriage.     She  mentioned  the  word,  and  for  the 


THE      COWARD.  151 

first  time  since  be  had  given  her  shelter  under  his  roof,  Philip 
romeroy  hurled  an  oath  at  her.  Perhaps  he  had  been  taking 
wine  somewhat  too  freely,  in  one  of  the  tempting  supper- 
rooms  of  the  city ;  or  some  other  cause  may  have  disturbed 
his  equanimity  and  brought  out  the  truth  of  his  worst  nature. 
The  reply  of  Eleanor  Hill  to  this  was  the  not  unnatural  one 
of  a  burst  of  tears,  and  that  outburst  may  have  maddened 
him  still  more.  The  truth  came  at  last,  in  all  its  black,  bitter, 
naked  deformity  : 

"  Eleanor,  you  have  made  a  fool  of  yourself  long  enough  1 
No  more  of  this  whining,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you  I 
When  /  marry  ijou,  I  shall  be  very  nearly  out  of  business ; 
and  if  you  have  not  had  judgment  enough  to  know  that  fact 
before,  so  much  the  worse  for  your  common  sense  !" 

Eleanor  Hill  staggered  up  from  her  chair  and  cast  one 
glance  full  into  the  face  of  her  destroyer.  Her  eyes  could 
read  the  expression  that  it  bore,  then,  if  they  had  never  before 
attained  the  same  power.  There  was  neither  the  smile  of 
reckless  pleasantry  nor  the  unbent  lines  of  partial  pity  for 
suffering,  upon  that  face.  All  was  cold,  hard,  determined, 
cruel  earnest,  and  the  victim  read  at  last  aright  what  she 
should  have  been  able  to  decipher  more  than  two  years  before. 
And  never  the  life  of  a  dangerous  infant  heir  went  out  be- 
neath the  choking  fingers  of  a  hired  murderer,  at  midnight 
and  in  silence  in  one  of  the  thick  vaulted  chambers  of  the 
Tower,  more  suddenly  or  more  effectually  than  at  that 
moment  the  last  honorable  hope  of  Eleanor  Hill  expired, 
strangled  by  the  hand  of  that  ''  guardian"  who  had  promised 
beside  a  dying  bed  that  he  would  shield  and  protect  her  as 
his  own  child  I 

In  that  hard,  cold  face  Eleanor  Hill  at  last  read  her  destiny. 
She  had  been  weak,  compliant  and  submissive,  but  never  recon- 
ciled to  her  shame  ;  and  at  that  moment  began  her  revolt. 

"I  understand  you  at  last,"  she  said.  "After  all  your 
promises,  you  will  not  marry  me  !" 

*'  Once  for  all— no  !"  was  the  firm  reply,  the  cruel  face  not 


152  THE      COWARD. 

blenching  in  the  least  before  that  glance,  mingled  of  pain  and 
indignation,  and  so  steadily  bent  upon  it. 

"  Then  I  have  lived  long  enough  in  this  house — too  long  1'* 
broke  from  the  lips  of  the  young  girl.  "  I  will  leave  it  to- 
morrow. You  cannot  give  me  back  the  thing  of  most  value 
of  which  you  have  robbed  me — my  honor  and  my  peace  of 
mind  ;  but  my  father  left  my  property  in  your  hands — give 
me  back  that,  so  that  I  may  go  away  and  hide  myself  where 
I  shall  never  be  any  more  trouble  to  you  or  to  any  others  who 
know  me." 

"  Humph  !  your  property  I"  was  the  reply,  in  so  sneering 
a  tone  that  even  the  unsuspicious  ears  of  the  victim  caught 
something  more  in  the  manner  than  in  the  words  themselves. 

"  Yes,  I  said  my  property — the  property  my  father  left  in 
your  hands  for  me  !"  answered  poor  Eleanor,  striving  to  con- 
quer the  deadly  depression  at  her  heart  dnd  to  be  calm  and 
dignified.  "  You  have  told  me  the  truth  at  last ;  and  I  will 
never  ask  you  the  question  again  if  you  will  give  me  enough 
money  for  my  support  and  let  me  go  away  from  this  life  of 
sin  into  which  you  have  dragged  me." 

"You  want  to  go  away,  do  you  !"  again  spoke  the  doctor, 
in  the  same  sneering  tone.  "And  you  expect  to  support 
yourself  upon  what  you  call '  your  property  ?' " 

"I  do  want  to  go  away — I  must  go  away,  Dr.  Philip  !" 
answered  the  victim,  still  managing  to  choke  down  the  tears 
and  sobs  that  were  rising  so  painfully.  "  You  have  cruelly 
deceived  a  poor  girl  who  trusted  you,  and  we  had  better 
never  see  each  other  again  while  we  live." 

"  Your  property,  you  said  I  Bring  me  that  large  black  port- 
folio from^the  top  of  the  closet  yonder,"  was  the  only  and 
strange  reply.  With  the  habit  of  her  old  obedience  the 
young  girl  went  to  the  place  designated,  found  the  pocket- 
book  and  brought  it  to  him.  He  opened  it,  took  out  half  a 
dozen  pieces  of  what  seemed  to  be  bank-note  paper,  and 
Sanded  them  over  to  her  without  an  additional  word 


THE      COWARD.  153 

"  What  are  these,  and  what  I  am  to  do  with  them  ?"  she 
asked,  in  surprise. 

"  They  are  '  your  fortune'  that  you  have  been  talking  about, 
and  you  may  do  what  you  like  with  them  if  you  insist  upon 
leaving  my  house  !"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  do  not  understand  you  1"  very  naturally  answered  the 
recipient,  making  no  motion  to  open  the  papers.  "  If  these 
are  mine,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  do  with  them  or  how  much 
they  are  worth." 

"  Oh,  I  can  tell  you  their  value,  very  easily,  though  I  migjht 
be  puzzled  to  direct  you  as  to  the  other  part  of  your  anxiety  !" 
said  the  doctor,  with  a  scarcely-suppressed  chuckle  at  the 
bottom  of  his  sneer.  "  They  are  the  scrip  for  four  thousand 
shares  in  the  capital  stock  of  the  Dunderhaven  Coal  and 
Mining  Company,  in  which,  with  your  consent,  I  invested 
the  forty  thousand  dollars  left  you  by  j^our  father ;  and  their 
present  worth  is  not  much,  as  the  company  unfortunately 
failed  about  six  months  ago,  paying  a  dividend  of  five-six- 
teenths of  a  centon  the  dollar.  The  amount  would  be — I  re- 
member calculating  it  up  at  the  time  of  the  failure — -just  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars." 

"And  that  is  all  the  money  that  I  have  in  the  world  I'* 
gasped  the  young  girl,  tottering  towards  a  chair. 

"  Every  penny,  if  you  leave  my  house  !"  answered  the 
model  guardian.  "  If  you  remain  in  it,  as  I  wish,  and  forget 
all  the  nonsense  that  priests  and  old  women  have  dinned  into 
your  ears,  about  marriage, — your  fortune  is  just  as  much  as 
my  own,  for  you  shall  find  that  there  is  nothing  which  I  can 
afford  to  purchase  for  myself,  that  I  will  not  just  as  freely 
purchase  for  you  !" 

Eleanor  Hill  said  not  a  w^ord  in  reply.  She  had  sunk  into 
a  chair  and  covered  her  face  with  both  her  hands,  through  the 
delicate  fingers  of  which  streamed  the  bright  tears,  while  her 
whole  frame  was  shaken  and  racked  by  the  violence  of  her 
mental  torture.  How  utterly  and  completely  desolate  she 
was  at  that  moment !     Refused  the  justice  of  marriage  by 


154  THE      COWARD. 

the  man  for  whom  she  had  perilled  all,  and  bidden  no  longer 
even  to  hope  for  that  justice — then  coldly  informed  that  if  she 
left  the  house  of  her  betrayer  she  went  away  to  beggary,  as  all 
the  fortune  left  her  by  her  father  had  been  squandered  by  im- 
prudence or  dishonesty, — what  additional  blow  could  fall  upon 
her,  and  what  other  and  heavier  bolt  could  there  yet  be  stored 
for  her  in  the  clouds  of  wrath  ? 


CHAPTER  Tin. 


What  followed  the  revelation  of  Betrayal — A  gleam 
OF  HoFE  FOR  Eleanor  Hill — A  relative  from  Califor- 
nia, A  projected  Voyage,  and  a  Disappointment — One 
more  Letter — The  broken  thread  resumed — Carlton 
Brand's  farewell,  and  a  sudden  Elopement. 

Eleanor  Hill  should  of  course  have  left  the  house  of  her 
guardian,  that  had  proved  such  a  valley  of  poison  to  her  girl- 
hood, the  very  moment  when  she  made  that  discovery  of  her 
final  and  complete  betrayal.  But  then,  strictly  speaking,  she 
should  have  left  it  long  before  ;  and  the  same  compliant  spirit 
that  had  once  yielded,  could  yield  again.  Pity  her  who  will 
— blame  her  who  may — she  bowed  beneath  the  weight  of  her 
own  helplessness  and  remained,  instead  of  fleeing  from  the 
spot  that  very  night  and  shaking  off  the  dust  of  her  feet 
against  it,  even  if  she  begged  her  bread  thereafter  from  door 
to  door.  Not  with  what  she  should  have  done,  and  not  with 
what  some  others  whom  we  have  known  w^ould  have  done 
under  the  circumstances,  have  we  to  do.  She  remained.  Not 
the  same  as  she  had  been  before — Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy  knew 
and  felt  the  difference  ;  and  yet  submissive  and  apparently 
unrepining.  Not  the  same  in  cheerfulness,  as  Miss  Hester 
felt  and  deplored ;  she  spoke  less,  seldomer  went  out,  even  when 


THE      COWARD.  155 

Strongly  tempted,  and  spent  much  more  time  in  the  solitude 
and  silence  of  her  own  room. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  put  upon  record  precisely  what  passed 
between  the  guardian  and  his  ward  in  the  months  that  imme- 
diately followed  that  revelation  ;  as  unfortunately  at  that 
point  information  otherwise  complete  and  uninterrupted,  is* 
defective  for  a  considerable  interval.  It  is  beyond  doubt  that 
in  the  breast  of  Eleanor  Hill  fear  and  hatred  had  taken  the 
place  of  love  towards  the  man  whom  she  had  once  idolized — 
that  the  sense  of  shame  weighing  upon  her  had  become  everv 
day  heavier  and  less  endurable — and  that  she  would  have  fled 
away  at  any  moment,  but  from  the  fact  that  she  was  utterly 
helpless,  pecuniarily  and  in  any  capacity  for  earning  her  own 
subsistence,  and  that  she  belieV^ed  in  the  probability  of  Dr. 
Philip  Pomeroy  putting  in  force  the  cruel  threat  he  had  made, 
and  publishing  her  shame  to  the  world,  distorted  to  suit  his 
own  purposes,  the  moment  she  should  have  quitted  his  abode 
and  his  guardianly  "protection  !" 

With  reference  to  the  wishes  and  intentions  of  Dr.  Philip 
Pomeroy  himself,  it  is  not  much  more  easy  to  form  any  accu- 
rate calculation.  That  he  did  not  wish  to  follow  the  example 
set  him  by  so  many  unscrupulous  traffickers  in  female  virtue, 
and  drive  awa}^  at  once  from  his  presence  the  woman  whose 
life  he  had  poisoned,  is  onl}^  too  certain.  That  he  had  no  in- 
tention of  making  her  legally  his  own  by  marriage,  his  own 
tongue  had  declared.  It  only  remains  to  believe  that  he  held 
towards  the  poor  girl  some  sort  of  tiger  mixture  of  love  and 
hate,  which  would  not  consent  to  make  her  happy  in  the  oulv 
manner  which  could  secure  that  end,  and  which  yet  would 
not  consent  to  part  with  her  at  any  demand  or  upon  any  ^ 
terms.  Other  than  she  was,  to  him,  she  could  not  be  :  as  she 
was,  she  seemed  to  minister  to  some  unholy  but  actual  need 
of  his  nature  ;  and  he  held  her  to  himself  with  an  evil  tenacity 
which  really  seemed  to  afford  a  new  study  in  psychology. 
Circumstances  were  close  at  hand,  calculated  to  show  some- 
thing of  the  completeness  of  the  net  drawn  around  the  feet 


156  THE      COWARD. 

of  the  young  girl,  even  if  they  did  not  clearly  point  out  the 
hand  drawing  the  cord  of  continued  restraint. 

Miss  Hester  Pomeroy  died  suddenly  in  the  winter  of  1860, 
alike  guiltless  and  ignorant  of  the  evil  which  had  taken  place 
under  the  roof  which  owned  her  as  its  mistress,  regretted  by 
her  brother  with  as  much  earnest  feeling  as  he  had  the  capa- 
city of  bestowing  upon  so  undemonstrative  a  relation,  and 
sincerely  mourned  by  the  forced  dweller  beneath  that  roof,  to 
whom  her  presence  had  been  a  protection  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  and  to  whose  cruel  lot  she  had  furnished  more  allevia- 
tions than  she  had  herself  capacity  to  understand. 

With  this  death,  the  introduction  of  a  mere  housekeeper 
to  take  the  place  which  she  had  so  worthily  filled,  the  addi- 
tional loneliness  which  was  inevitable  when  a  hired  stranger 
occupied  her  room,  and  the  certainty  that  the  last  excuse  of 
propriety  for  her  remaining  was  removed, — it  may  be  sup- 
posed that  the  struggle  in  the  mind  of  the  poor  girl  began 
anew,  and  raged  with  redoubled  violence.  The  desire  to  be 
freed  from  the  presence  and  the  power  of  her  destroyer  had 
by  that  time  grown  to  be  an  absorbing  thought,  ever  present 
with  her,  and  worthy  of  any  possible  sacrifice  to  give  it 
reality.  Any  possible  sacrifice  :  to  poor  Eleanor  Hill,  sacri- 
fices which  many  others  would  have  embraced  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  seemed  literal  madness.  The  certainty  of 
penury  and  the  probability  of  open  shame  pressed  her  close ; 
and  she  could  not  shake  off  the  double  fetter.  Her  tyrant 
would  give  her  no  release ;  and  she  succumbed  to  her  living 
death  once  more. 

Months  longer  of  weary  waiting  for  deliverance,  every 
spark  of  love  died  out  from  her  heart,  and  yet  soul  and  body 
alike  enslaved.  Oh,  God  of  all  the  suffering  ! — how  often  has 
this  been,  with  no  visible  hand  to  deliver,  with  no  pen  to 
chronicle  !  Months,  and  then  came  what  seemed  the  oppor- 
tunity of  the  poor  girl's  life. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Xicholas  Hill,  at  his  dying 
hour,  spoke  of  his  only  relatives,  and  even  those  removed  by 


THE      COWARD.  157 

geveral  degrees,  residing  on  the  Pacific  coast.  One  of  these, 
William  Barnes,  a  distant  cousin,  and  a  man  of  forty,  who 
owned  a  comfortable  ranch  near  Sacramento,  came  on  to  the 
East  in  the  summer  of  1861,  bringing  his  wife,  and  in  one  of 
his  visits  to  Philadelphia  casually  heard  of  the  whereabouts 
of  the  orphaned  daughter  of  his  relative.  Within  a  day  or 
two  following  he  pursued  his  information  by  driving  out  to 
the  Schuylkill  and  calling  upon  Eleanor,  in  the  absence  of  the 
doctor  as  it  chanced.  Half  an  hour's  conversation  satisfied 
the  large-hearted  Californian  that  the  young  girl  was  unhappy, 
from  whatever  cause ;  ten  minutes  more  drew  from  her  the 
information  that  all  the  property  left  her  by  her  father  had 
melted  away  in  unfortunate  speculations,  though  of  course 
they  won  no  w^ay  towards  the  other  and  more  terrible  secret ; 
and  the  next  ten  minutes  sufficed  him  to  offer  her  a  home,  as 
a  relative  and  companion  to  his  wife,  at  his  pleasant  ranch 
in  the  Golden  State.  Girls  were  scarce  in  California,  he  said  ; 
girls  as  handsome  as  Eleanor  were  scarce  in  any  quarter  of 
the  globe  ;  and  if  she  would  accept  his  invitation  they  would 
astonish  all  his  neighbors  a  little,  on  their  arrival  out,  while 
she  could  select  at  will  among  fifty  stalwart  fellows,  with 
plenty  of  money,  any  day  when  she  might  fancy  a  husband. 

Here  was  hope — here  was  deliverance.  How  eagerly 
Eleanor  Hill  grasped  at  it  can  only  be  known  by  the  wretch 
who  has  once  been  so  nearly  drowned  that  the  last  gasp  was 
on  his  lip,  and  then  found  a  helping  hand  stretched  out  for 
his  rescue — or  that  other  wretch  w^ho  has  wandered  for  hours 
over  a  trackless  waste  and  then  found  a  landmark  at  the 
moment  when  he  was  ready  to  lie  down  and  die  I  William 
Barnes  was  to  leave  New  York  on  his  return  to  California 
within  a  fortnight :  he  would  inform  his  wife  of  the  arrange- 
ment, and  she  would  be  delighted  with  the  thought  of  finding 
a  companion;  and  on  the  morning  of  the  sailing  of  the 
steamer  Eleanor  would  appear,  to  fill  the  state-room  already 
engaged. 

Somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  the  escaping  prisoner,  and 


158  THECOWARD. 

immeasurably  to  her  joy,  when  tliat  evening,  with  an  expres- 
sion on  her  lip  that  was  nearer  to  triumph  than  any  which 
had  rested  there  during  all  the  four  years  of  her  sinful 
slavery — Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy  neither  threatened  her  Avith 
poverty  nor  expo?^ure  as  he  had  before  done  (perhaps  because 
he  felt  that  when  under  Mr.  Barnes'  protection  the  former 
would  be  beyond  his  power  and  the  latter  of  little  conse- 
quence in  a  State  so  far  removed  as  California)  nor  even 
seriously  opposed  her  accepting  the  offer  made  her.  At  last, 
then,  the  cruel  heart  had  relented,  her  shameful  dependence 
was  at  an  end,  and  the  reformation  of  her  life  could  find  its 
late  beginning. 

Three  days  later  came  a  letter  from  New  York,  from 
William  Barnes,  reiterating  what  had  been  said  personally, 
and  accompanied  by  the  indorsement  of  the  arrangement  by 
Mrs.  Barnes.  The  last  shadow  of  doubt,  then,  was  removed 
out  of  the  way,  and  the  young  girl's  moderate  preparations 
for  removal  went  on  with  new  vigor.  One  hundred  dollars 
in  money  was  all  that  she  asked  of  her  guardian  for  these 
preparations,  and  that  sum  was  accorded  without  hesitation 
or  comment.  On  the  morning  of  the  sailing  of  the  steamer 
she  left  Philadelphia  by  the  early  train,  the  doctor  himself 
bringing  her  down  to  the  depot  in  his  carriage,  and  bidding 
her  good-bye  with  a  word  of  kind  regret,  and  a  kiss  which 
seemed  chaste  enough  for  that  of  a  brother.  Her  small  array 
of  baggage  had  preceded  her,  and  was  no  doubt  already 
within  the  hold  of  the  vessel  that  was  to  bear  her  to  the 
Pacific,  to  a  renewed  life,  and  an  opportunity  of  gathering  up 
the  broken  threads  of  lost  happiness. 

The  steamer,  the  old  Northern  Light,  of  such  varying  for- 
tunes, w^as  to  sail  at  two.  At  half-past  twelve,  the  carriage 
containing  Eleanor  Hill  dashed  down  to  the  foot  of  Warren 
Street,  among  all  that  crush  of  carriages,  baggage-wagons, 
foot-people  with  valises  and  carpet-bags,  idlers,  policemen, 
pickpockets.  United  States  Mail  -  vans,  weeping  women, 
"whining  children,  and  insatiate  shakers  of  human  hands,  that 


THE      COWARD.  lo9 

has  attended  the  departure  of  every  California  steamer  since 
the  first  ploiiglied  her  ocean  way  towards  the  land  of  gold. 
Mr.  Barnes  had  promised  to  meet  her  at  the  gangway  or  on 
shipboard,  but  neither  on  the  dock  nor  on  dock  could  she  dis- 
cover him.  One  o'clock  was  long  past,  and  Eleanor  had 
grown  sick  at  heart  under  the  idea  that  some  mistake  as  to 
the  steamer  must  have  been  made,  when  from  the  gangway 
fche  saw  a  carriage  drive  up  and  her  new  protector  alight 
from  it.  He  was  assisting  out  a  lad}^  who  could  be  no  other 
than  his  w^ife  ;  and  the  young  girl,  fairly  overjoyed,  ran  down 
the  plank  to  meet  and  welcome  them.  The  lady,  who  was 
just  starting  up  the  plank  as  Eleanor  reached  the  foot  of  it, 
did  not  notice  her,  but  continued  her  ascent :  William  Barnes 
did  see  her,  and  allowing  his  wife  to  proceed  alone,  he  seized 
her  arm  and  drew  her  hurriedly  away  down  the  pier,  and 
beyond  ear-shot.  Eleanor  noticed  that  his  face  seemed 
flushed,  and  his  whole  demeanor  agitated  ;  but  she  w^as  far 
from  being  prepared  for  the  startling  intelligence  that  burst 
from  his  lips,  interlarded  with  oaths  and  expressions  of 
honest  indignation.  The  generous-hearted  Californian  was, 
in  truth,  very  nearly  beside  himself  with  shame  and  mortifi- 
cation. Eleanor  could  not  accompany  his  wife  and  himself 
to  California,  after  all  !  And  the  story  of  the  disappointment, 
though  a  little  mixed  up  with  those  energetic  expressions 
and  once  interrupted  by  the  necessity  of  the  enraged  man's 
pausing  to  throw  into  the  dock  a  package  of  fruit  which  his 
wife  had  just  been  purchasing  for  her  comfort  on  the  voyage 
(the  porter  who  brought  it  being  very  nearly  included  in  that 
sacrifice  to  Xeptune),  the  story,  in  spite  of  all  these  hindrances, 
was  far  too  quickly  told  ;  and  every  word,  after  the  first 
which  revealed  her  fate,  fell  upon  the  heart  of  the  poor  girl 
as  if  it  had  been  the  blow  of  a  hammer  smiting  her  living 
flesh. 

Up  to  that  morning — the  Californian  said — his  wife  had 
seemed  not  only  willing  to  accept  Eleanor's  society,  but 
highly  pleased  at  the  prospect.     Her  ticket  had  been  bought 


160  THE      COWARD. 

and  various  presents  selected  by  Mrs.  Barnes'  own  hands,  for 

the  comfort  of  their  guest  on  the  route  and  in  her  new  home. 
That  morning,  and  not  more  than  two  hours  before,  the 
weather  in  the  matrimonial  horizon,  never  entirely  reliable  in 
the  latitude  of  Mrs.  Barnes,  had  changed  entirely.  On  com- 
ing into  the  hotel  from  some  business  calls,  among  them  a 
visit  to  the  Post  Office  (though  Mr.  Barnes  thought,  very 
naturally,  that  the  latter  place  could  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  sudden  barometric  variation) — she  had  suddenly  declared 
to  him  that  "he  might  as  well  go  down  to  the  office  and 
countermand  the  order  for  Miss  Hill's  ticket  and  save  the 
money;  as  if  she  [Miss  Hill]  went  to  California  with  him  on 
the  steamer  that  day,  she  [Mrs.  Barnes]  would  not  stir  one 
step  but  stay  in  Xew  York."  Inquiry  and  even  demand 
bad  failed  to  secure  any  explanation  of  this  strange  and  sud- 
den veering  of  the  marital  weathercock  ;  and  expostulation 
and  even  entreaty,  with  full  representations  of  the  contempti- 
ble position  in  which  he  would  be  placed  by  any  change  in 
the  arrangements  at  that  hour,  had  failed  to  secure  any  modi- 
fication of  the  sentence.  She  wanted  no  strangers  in  her 
house,  or  in  her  company  on  board  ship ;  and  she  would  not 
have  any — that  was  flat !  If  Eleanor  Hill  went  to  California, 
she  remained  !  A  full-blown  domestic  quarrel,  lasting  with 
different  degrees  of  gusty  violence  for  nearly  an  hour,  had 
been  the  result ;  and  that  other  result  had  followed  which 
nearly  always  follows  when  husband  and  wife  commence  dis- 
cussion of  any  matter  seriously  affecting  the  feelings  (or  whims) 
of  the  latter — the  husband  had  succumbed,  the  arrangement 
had  been  definitely  broken  off,  and  the  state-room  which  the 
young  girl  was  to  have  occupied  was  no  doubt  by  that  time 
in  the  occupancy  of  a  man  with  a  red  beard,  long  boots,  a 
broad  hat  and  a  gray  blanket ! 

Poor  Eleanor  Hill  ! — it  seemed  too  hard,  indeed — this  be- 
ing plunged  back  again  into  the  pit  of  helpless  sin  and  self* 
reproach,  at  every  effort  made  for  extrication  ! 

There  is  a  legend  told  of  the  great  well  in  the  court-yard 


THE      COWARD.  IGl 

of  one  of  the  old  English  castles,  at  the  period  of  the  Parlia- 
mentary wars,  which  comes  into  mind  when  the  cruel  facts 
of  her  life  are  rememtjered.  Sir  Hugh,  the  Cavalier,  had  seen 
bis  castle  surprised,  taken  and  sacked  by  the  Cromwcliiau 
troopers,  guided  and  led  on  by  a  roundhead  churl  who  owed 
him  gratitude  instead  of  ill-service — had  been  wounded  and 
made  prisoner,  while  the  females  of  his  family  were  maltreated 
and  the  pictures  that  made  half  his  ancestral  pride  stabbed 
and  hacked  in  pieces  by  the  ruffians  who  could  not  enough 
outrage  the  living  members  of  his  race.  Then  the  tide  of 
fortune  had  turned  ;  he  had  once  more  regained  his  strong- 
hold, with  manly  arms  around  him,  and  those  of  his  dear  ones 
who  had  not  perished  by  outrage  and  exposure,  once  more 
under  his  sheltering  hand.  Then  the  recreant  roundhead 
neighbor  fell  one  day  into  his  hands,  and  the  cruel  blood  of 
the  Norman  ancestors  who  had  begun  their  robbery  and 
rapine  on  English  soil  at  Hastings,  rose  up  in  the  breast  of 
Sir  Hugh  and  made  him  for  the  time  a  very  fiend  of  revenge. 
The  great  well  had  been  ruined  by  the  corpses  thrown  into  it 
at  the  sacking  of  the  castle  ;  and  into  that  well,  in  spite  of  his 
struggles,  he  had  the  poor  wretch  lowered  by  bis  retainers^ 
then  the  slight  rope  cut  away  and  the  victim  left  to  cling  to 
the  slippery  stones  at  the  edge  of  the  water  thirty  feet  below, 
unable  to  climb  them,  too  desperate  to  sink,  and  wailing  out 
his  cries  for  merc\^,  while  a  huge  lamp,  lowered  by  another 
rope,  showed  the  whole  terrible  spectacle  to  the  pitiless  eye** 
that  dared  look  down  upon  it.  Then  another  rope  was 
lowered  by  the  great  windlass,  within  reach  of  the  struggling 
wretch,  and  he  was  allowed  to  seize  hold  upon  it  and  climb  a 
little  way  from  the  water,  under  the  belief  that  his  tyrant  had 
at  last  relented  and  that  he  was  to  be  allowed  to  save  him- 
self after  that  dreadful  trial.  Then,  when  he  had  climbed  for 
a  few  feet  from  the  black  ooze  beneath  him,  the  rope  wo* 
lowered  away  and  the  poor  wretch  again  submerged,  to 
shriek,  and  wail,  and  climb  again,  and  to  be  again  dropped 
back  at  the  moment  of  transient  hope,  until  the  wearied 
10 


162  THE      COW  A  11  Li  . 

fingers  could  cling  aad  climb  no  longer  and  tlio  life  Ibus  out- 
raged and  the  light  which  had  revealed  that  sad  refinement 
upon  cruelty  went  horribly  out  together  !  And  how  much 
less  cruel  was  Fate,  thus  standing  guard  over  the  life  of 
Eleanor  Hill  and  dropping  her  back  again  into  her  own  shame 
at  every  attempt  which  she  made  to  escape  from  it  or  to  rise 
above  it, — than  the  grim  and  grizzled  old  Sir  Hugh  who  had 
been  made  a  human  fiend  by  his  past  wrongs  and  the  bandit 
blood  of  his  race  ? 

There  was  genuine  regret  blended  with  the  anger  and 
shame  on  the  honest  face  of  William  Barnes,  as  he  made  that 
confession  which  dashed  all  the  hopes  of  the  young  girl, — that 
he  dared  not  take  her  to  California.  But  who  shall  describe 
the  expression  of  hopeless  sorrow  and  despondency  which 
dwelt  upon  hers  at  that  moment  ?  Yet  despondency  was 
unwise  as  struggle  was  unavailing.  This,  too,  must  be  borne, 
as  a  part  of  the  penalty  of — no,  we  cannot  write  the  word 
"  guilt" — the  penalty  of  being  unfortunate  and  abused  !  The 
Californian  took  the  privilege  of  blood,  to  urge  the  acceptance 
of  such  a  sum  from  his  well-filled  wallet  as  would  enable  her 
to  replace  the  clothing  and  other  articles  in  her  trunks,  then 
too  late  to  remove  from  the  hold  of  the  vessel, — bade  her 
good-bye  and  sprung  on  board  just  as  the  last  call  was  given. 
The  poor  outcast  mustered  courage  to  speak  to  a  hackman  as 
the  steamer  moved  away  that  she  had  so  lately  hoped  was  to 
bear  her  to  a  more  hospitable  land  and  a  better  life  ;  and  half 
an  hour  later  she  was  speeding  back  towards  Philadelphia  on 
the  Camden  and  Amboy  boat ;  with  strange  thoughts  running 
through  her  mind  but  happily  finding  no  lodgment  there, 
that  under  some  circumstances  of  desertion  and  despair 
there  could  not  be  such  a  terrible  crime  in  slipping  quietly 
overboard  and  going  to  a  dreamless  sleep  in  the  cool,  placid 
water. 

Had  Eleanor  Hill  possessed  that  energy  the  want  of  which 
Las  been  so  many  times  before  deplored,  she  would  have 
sought  out  another  home,  though  in  the  most  miserable  alley 


THE      COWAKD.  163 

of  the  overcrowded  city,  before  relurniug  yet  more  disgraced 
to  that  place  of  misery  once  abandoned.  But  she  lacked  that 
energy,  and  perhaps  her  coming  life  was  foredoomed,  as  the 
past  had  been.  That  night  the  bars  of  her  cage  closed  again 
upon  her.  Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy  receiv^ed  her  in  all  kindness, 
with  some  expressions  of  pleased  surprise  and  a  few  sharp 
epithets  hurled  at  the  man  who  could  be  weak  enough  to 
change  his  mind  in  that  manner  at  the  bidding  of  a  woman. 
But  there  was  something  in  his  tone  and  demeanor  which 
left  the  girl  in  doubt  whether  he  was  really  so  much  surprised 
as  he  pretended ;  and  later  developments  were  rapidly 
approaching  which  made  the  doubt  more  tenable. 

Among  the  acquaintances  formed  by  Eleanor  Hill  in  the 
early  days  of  her  residence  under  the  roof  of  Dr.  Pomeroy, 
bad  been  the  family  of  Robert  Brand,  which  the  doctor  visited 
(as  he  did  many  others  in  the  neighborhood)  both  as  friend 
and  medical  attendant.  In  those  days  she  had  been  visited 
by  Elsie  Brand  and  her  brother,  and  had  visited  them  in  re- 
turn. Gradually  all  intimacy  between  Elsie  and  herself  had 
ceased,  as  that  great  change,  known  only  to  herself  and  two 
others,  affected  the  whole  tenor  of  her  life.  But  the  friend- 
ship at  that  time  formed  with  Carlton  Brand  had  never  weak- 
ened, and  it  perhaps  grew  the  stronger  from  the  hour  when 
each  became  satisiied  that  no  warmer  personal  interest  would 
ever  rise  in  the  breast  of  the  other.  Perhaps  Carlton  Brand, 
to  some  extent  a  man  of  the  world,  and  a  close  student  of 
character  by  virtue  of  his  profession,  may  have  formed  his 
opinions,  long  before  1861,  of  the  relations  existing:  between 
the  doctor  and  his  ward  ;  but  if  so,  he  had  not  a  thought  of 
blame  or  any  depreciation  of  respect  for  the  poor  girl  on 
account  of  it;  and  during  all  those  years,  if  he  indeed 
harbored  such  suspicions,  he  had  no  means  of  verifying  them, 
for  Eleanor  IlilPs  lips  had  been  and  remained  quite  as  closely 
sealed  to  him  as  to  others. 

Between  Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy  and  the  lawyer  had  always 
existed,  since  the  young  girl  had  been  an  inmate  of  tlie  house, 


164:  THE      COWAKD. 

an  antagonism  which  could  not  well  be  mistaken.  Xo  open 
rupture  bad  taken  place,  in  the  knowledge  of  any  acquaint- 
ance of  either ;  but  they  never  met  without  exchanging  looks 
which  told  of  mutual  dislike  and  distrust.  "Within  the  three 
years  between  1858  and  1861  that  antagonism,  as  even  the  un-» 
observant  girl  could  see,  had  markedly  increased,  so  that  even  in 
his  own  house  the  doctor,  when  he  came  upon  him,  seldom  ad- 
dressed a  word  to  his  unwelcome  guest.  Had  she  known  that 
in  the  investigations  which  followed  the  failure  of  the  Dunder- 
haven  Coal  and  Mining  Company,  in  the  later  days  of  the  great 
commercial  crash  of  185T-8,  Carlton  Brand  had  been  one  of 
the  counsel  employed  to  prosecute  that  great  swindle  in  which 
her  own  fortune  had  been  swallowed  up  with  hundreds  of 
others, — had  she  known  this,  we  say,  she  might  have  imagined 
some  reason  for  this  increase  of  dislike  which  was  certainly 
not  founded  upon  jealousy.  But  she  would  not  have  guessed, 
even  then,  one  tithe  of  the  causes  for  deadly  and  life-long 
hatred  which  lay  between  tw^o  men  of  corresponding  eminence 
in  two  equally  liberal  professions.  It  is  not  possible,  at  this 
stage  of  the  narration,  to  explain  what  were  those  causes, 
eventually  so  certain  to  develop  themselves. 

On  the  eve  of  her  attempted  transit  to  California,  of  which 
we  have  already  seen  the  melancholy  failure,  Eleanor  Hill 
wrote  but  one  letter  of  farewell,  and  that  letter  was  addressed 
to  Carlton  Brand.  On  her  way  homeward  from  her  great 
disappointment,  she  paused  in  the  city  to  drop  a-  pencil  note 
written  on  board  the  steamboat ;  and  that  was  also  to  Carlton 
Brand,  informing  him  of  her  return.  [N'o  reply  was  made  to 
the  latter  note,  for  three  days :  then  the  lawyer  called  upon 
her  one  day  during  the  professional  absence  of  the  doctor. 
He  had  been  absent,  at  the  city  of  New  York  and  still  farther 
eastward,  for  more  than  a  week  previous.  He  had  returned 
from  the  commercial  metropolis  only  the  day  before,  and  had 
taken  the  very  earliest  moment  to  acknowledge  the  reception 
of  her  missive  and  to  express  his  sympathy  in  her  disappoint- 
ment— perhaps  something  more. 


THE      COWARD.  165 

After  a  few  moments  of  conversation  on  that  unfortunate 
affair,  the  lawyer  remarked  that  he  had  chanced  to  stop  at  the 
same  hotel  in  New  York,  patronized  by  Mr.  Barnes  and  his 
wife,  and  having  some  recollection  of  the  face  of  the  former, 
from  old  Philadelphia  rencontres,  had  made  the  acquaintance 
of  both.  He  had  known  nothing  whatever  of  the  intention 
of  Eleanor  to  accompany  them  to  the  Pacific  coast,  or  even 
that  any  relationship  existed  between  herself  and  William 
Barnes.  But  Mrs.  Barnes  had  "  cottoned  to  him"  a  little,  ap- 
parently, he  had  been  the  possessor  of  a  few  spare  hours,  and 
he  had  become  her  companion  and  escort  on  some  of  her  shop- 
ping excursions  when  Mr.  Barnes  was  otherwise  employed. 
He  had  been  her  escort  on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which 
she  sailed,  and  after  her  return  from  the  Post-office  had  been 
present  at  her  opening  of  several  letters,  over  one  of  which 
she  fell  into  a  storm  of  rage  requiring  an  apology  for  such  an 
exposure  before  a  comparative  stranger.  As  a  part  of  that 
apology,  she  had  handed  him  the  letter,  bearing  the  Phila- 
delphia post-mark;  and  inadvertently,  as  he  then  supposed, 
but  providentially,  as  he  afterwards  saw  reason  to  believe,  he 
had  kept  the  letter  in  his  hands,  dropped  it  into  his  pocket 
with  his  newspaper,  and  forgotten  to  return  it  until  he  had 
parted  from  the  enraged  woman  and  left  the  hotel.  It  was 
only  after  his  return  to  Philadelphia  and  reception  of  the  two 
notes  advising  him  of  Eleanor's  intended  departure  and  her 
disappointment,  that  he  had  been  able  to  connect  that  letter 
with  any  one  in  whom  he  possessed  a  personal  interest. 

Eleanor  Hill  had  been  gradually  growing  paler  during  this 
recital ;  and  she  was  chalky  white  and  almost  ready  to  faint, 
when  at  that  stage  the  lawyer  paused  and  handed  her  a  letter 
taken  from  his  pocket,  with  the  inquiry,  "if  she  knew  that 
handwriting."  The  letter  was  very  brief,  but  very  expres- 
sive, and  ran  as  follows — the  words  being  faithfully  copied 
from  the  shameful  original,  lying  at  the  writer's  hand  at  this 
moment : 


166  THE      CO  WARD. 

PniLADELPniA, ,  1861. 

Madam:— I  have  accidentally  learned  that  arrangements  have 
been  made  hy  your  husband  and  yourself,  to  take  a  young  lady  back 
with  you  to  your  hoiae  in  California,  on  your  return.  When  I  tell 
you  that  I  knew  your  husband  and  his  family  many  years  ago,  you 
will  understand  my  motive  for  taking  part  in  what  is  apparently 
none  of  my  business.  If  the  report  is  true,  that  you  do  so  intend, 
you  have  been  shamefully  deceived  and  imposed  upon.  The  young 
lady,  whose  name  I  need  not  mention,  has  been  for  years  the  mis- 
tress of  the  man  with  whom  she  is  living;  and  you  can  judge  for 
yourself  the  policy  of  introducing  such  a  person  into  your  house- 
hold. I  have  no  means  of  judging  whether  your  husband  is  or  is 
not  acquainted  with  the  real  character  of  the  lady  ;  but  any  doubt 
on  that  subject  you  can  have  no  difficulty  in  solving  for  yourself. 
I  have  preferred  to  address  you  instead  of  him,  with  this  warning, 
because  in  the  event  of  his  really  being  aware  of  all  the  circum- 
stances, any  oommunicatiou  to  him  would  of  course  never  have 
reached  your  eyes.  With  the  highest  esteem  and  regard  for  your- 
self, for  your  husband  and  his  family,  I  am  (only  concealing  my 
real  name,  for  the  present,  from  motives  which  I  hope  you  will 
readily  appreciate,)  yours,  obediently,  D.  T.  M. 

**My  God! — yes,  I  know  that  handwriting!"  sobbed 
Eleanor  Hill,  covering  her  eves  with  both  hands,  after  glancing 
over  the  precious  epistle. 

"  So  I  feared  !"  said  Carlton  Brand. 

"  Oh,  how  can  any  man  be  so  cruel !''  continued  the  poor 
girl. 

"  How  could  he  dare  to  utter  such  a  falsehood  ?"  said  the 
lawyer,  glancing  closely  at  the  young  girl  meanwhile.  Her 
face,  that  had  the  moment  before  been  pale,  was  now  one 
flush  of  crimson,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  very  veins  would 
burst  with  the  pressure  of  shamed  and  indignant  blood. 
Carlton  Brand  saw,  and  if  he  had  before  doubted,  he  doubted 
no  longer.  He  spoke  not  another  word.  But  the  instant 
after,  at  last  goaded  beyond  all  endurance,  Eleanor  Hill  started 
to  her  feet,  and  said  : 

"  Carlton  Brand,  I  believe  that  I  have  but  one  friend  in  the 
world,  and  you  are  that  friend.     I  have  tried  to  keep  my 


THE      COWARD.  1C7 

shame  from  you,  because  I  could  not  bear  to  forfeit  your  good 
opinion.  You  know  all,  now,  but  do  not  believe  me  guilty 
and  wicked  !     That  man—" 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  guilty,  Eleanor,  whatever  may  be 
the  errors  into  which  you  have  been  dragged  by  that  worst 
devil  out  of  torment !"  he  interrupted  her. 

"  Expose  that  man  to  the  world,  then,  or  kill  him  !  Do 
not  let  my  shame  stand  in  the  way  !  I  can  bear  any  thing, 
to  see  him  punished  as  he  deserves,  for  this  last  cruel  deed  !" 
The  girl  was  for  the  moment  beside  herself,  and  she  little 
thought,  just  then,  what  was  the  penalty  she  braved  !  It 
seemed  that  Carlton  Brand  better  appreciated  the  peril,  or 
that  some  other  weighty  consideration  chained  his  limbs  and 
his  spirit,  for  his  was  now  the  flushed  face,  and  he  made  none 
of  those  physical  movements  which  the  avenger  inevitably 
assumes,  even  if  beneath  no  other  eye  than  God's,  when  he 
determines  upon  a  course  of  action  involving  exposure  and 
possible  danger.  He  seemed  to  tremble,  but  not  with  anxiety  : 
his  was  rather  the  quiver  of  inertiae  than  any  nobler  incitement. 

"Expose  him?— kill  him?"  he  gasped  rather  than  said. 
"You  do  not  know  what  you  ask,  Eleanor  !  I  cannot ! — dare 
not—" 

''Dare  not  ?"  echoed  Eleanor  Hill,  her  face  that  had  ordi- 
narily so  little  pride  or  courage  in  it,  now  expressing  wonder 
not  unmingled  with  contempt.  Eor  the  first  time,  she  saw  the 
countenance  of  that  man  who  had  seemed  to  her  almost  a 
demi-god,  convulsed  with  pain  and  shame  ;  and  the  sad  won- 
der that  was  almost  pity  grew  in  her  eyes,  as  within  a  moment 
after,  moved  by  her  confidence  and  assured  by  it  that  he  need 
fear  no  danger  of  betrayal,  Carlton  Brand  entrusted  her  with 
the  secret  of  that  skeleton  in  his  mental  closet  which  made 
him  powerless  against  the  bold,  unscrupulous  and  determined 
Philip  Pomeroy.  Each  had  the  most  dangerous  confidence 
of  the  other,  then  ;  and  each  realized,  if  nothing  more,  a  cer- 
tain painful  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  the  burthen  was  not 
thenceforth  to  be  borne  entirely  without  sympathy.     But  to 


168  THE      COWARD. 

neither  did  there  appear  any  hope  of  unravelling  a  villany  which 
seemed  to  both  so  monstrous. 

All  this  took  place  in  the  summer  oF  1861,  it  will  be  re- 
membered ;  and  between  that  time  and  the  period  at  which 
we  have  seen  Eleanor  Hill  kneeling  piteously  before  Nathan 
Bladesden  and  afterwards  greeting  Carlton  Brand  with  surh 
a  sympathy  of  shame  and  sorrow, — nearly  two  years  had 
tlapsed.  During  that  time  Carlton  Brand  had  seemed  to 
gather  more  and  more  dislike  of  the  physician,  and,  as  must 
be  confessed,  more  and  more  positive  fear  of  him  ;  while  Dr. 
Pomeroy  had  more  than  once  treated  poor  Eleanor  with 
positive  bodil}' indignity  for  daring  to  receive  his- visits  at 
all,  though  he  was  the  last  of  all  her  old  acquaintances  who 
kept  up  the  least  pretence  at  iutimac}'.  Finally,  for  months 
before  the  June  of  1863,  the  lawyer  had  ceased  to  make  any 
visits  to  the  house,  except  at  times  when  he  knew  the  doctor 
to  be  absent ;  and  then  he  stayed  but  briefly  at  each  infre- 
quent call,  while  one  of  the  female  servants,  who  was  devoted 
to  Eleanor,  had  confidential  orders  from  her  to  keep  watch  for 
the  sudden  coming  of  the  doctor,  so  that  this  man,  who  seemed 
born  to  be  a  Paladin,  could  skulk  away  by  one  door  or  the 
other  and  avoid  a  meeting !  A  most  pitiable  exhibition, 
truly ! — but  the  record  must  be  made  a  faithful  one,  even  in 
this  melancholy  instance. 

Since  Eleanor  Hill's  return  from  her  temporary  Hegira,  for 
a  long  period,  so  far  as  the  eye  could  see  no  change  had  taken 
place  in  the  relations  existing  between  the  *'  guardian"  and 
his  "ward."  Perhaps  he  treated  her  with  more  coolness 
than  of  old ;  and  she  may  have  been  more  habitually  silent, 
while  she  had  become  a  virtual  recluse  and  seldom  passed 
j^eyond  the  doors  of  that  fated  dwelling.  Whatever  the 
weakness  which  the  fact  may  have  shown  on  her  part,  what- 
ever of  persistent  evil  on  his, — the  old  intimacy  of  crime  had 
been  maintained,  though  the  love  once  existing  in  the  breast 
of  the  young  girl  had  long  changed  to  loathing,  and  there 


TILK      COWAKD.  169 

was  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  ignoblcr  passion  urging 
on  her  destroyer  had'quite  as  long  before  become  satiety. 

This  up  to  a  certain  period.  One  day  during  the  winter  of 
1862,  ISTathan  Bladesden,  a  Quaker  merchant  of  the  city,  gray- 
headed,  eminently  respectable  and  a  widower,  had  found  oc- 
casion to  call  at  the  residence  of  Dr.  Pomeroy.  In  the  host's 
absence  he  had  been  received  by  his  ward  ;  and  the  blind 
god,  ever  fantastic  in  his  dealings,  had  smitten  the  calm, 
strong  man  with  a  feeling  not  to  be  overcome.  He  had 
called  again  and  again,  sometimes  in  the  doctor's  absence  and 
sometimes  when  he  was  at  home  ;  out  the  object  of  his  pur- 
suit had  evidently  been  Eleanor  Hill.  His  visits  had  seemed 
to  be  rather  pleasing  than  otherwise  to  the  master  of  the 
house,  who  could  not  fail  to  see  towards  what  they  tended ; 
and  that  he  did  see  and  approve  had  seemed  to  be  evident 
from  his  entire  withdrawal  of  himself  from  Eleanor's  private 
society,  from  the  time  of  the  second  visit.  The  poor  girl's 
heart  had  leaped  with  joy,  at  the  possibility  of  union  with  a 
noble  man,  that  should  finally  remove  her  from  her  false 
position  and  make  her  past  life  only  a  sad  remembrance  ; 
and  tliose  precisians  may  blame  her  who  will,  while  all  must 
sorrow  for  the  circumstances  which  seemed  to  render  the  de- 
ception necessary, — that  she  had  not  shuddered,  as  she  possi- 
bly should  have  done,  at  the  idea  of  marriage  without  full 
confidence.  Two  months  before,  while  April  was  laughing 
and  weeping  over  the  earth,  the  grave,  unimpeachable  man, 
who  already  held  so  much  of  her  respect  and  could  so  easily 
induce  a  much  warmer  feeling  of  her  nature, — had  asked  her 
to  be  his  honored  wife  and  the  mistress  of  his  handsome  house 
in  the  city  ;  and  the  harrassed  girl,  the  goal  of  a  life  of  peace 
once  more  in  sight,  had  answered  him  that  she  would  be  his 
wife  at  any  moment  if  he  would  consent  to  accept  the 
remnant  of  a  heart  which  had  been  cruelly  tortured  and  to 
make  no  inquiries  as  to  a  past  which  must  ever  remain 
buried.  To  these  terms  the  Quaker  had  consented  ;  this  had 
been  Eleanor  Hill's  betrothal ;  and  with  such  a  redeeming 


170  THE      COWARD. 

prospect  in  view  had  her  life  remained,  until  that  fatal  day 
of  June  when  the  knowledge  that  her  whole  secret  was  be- 
trayed burst  upon  her  in  the  presence  and  the  reproaches  of 
Kathan  Bladesden.  What  passed  between  them  has  already- 
been  recorded,  at  a  stage  of  this  narration  antecedent  to  the 
long  but  necessary  resume  just  concluded  ;  and  we  have  seen 
how,  only  a  few  minutes  after,  Carlton  Brand  held  in  his  hand 
the  letter  of  her  second  denunciation,  and  what  were  his  brief 
but  burning  words  as  he  commenced  reading. 

"  Curse  him  I  He  deserves  eternal  perdition,  and  he  will 
find  it!" 

He  read  through  the  letter  without  speaking  another  word, 
though  there  were  occasional  convulsive  twitches  of  his  face 
which  showed  how  his  heart  was  stirred  to  indignation  by 
the  perusal. 

"You  are  sure,  are  you  not?"  Eleanor  asked,  when  he 
had  finished. 

"  Just  as  sure  as  I  was  in  the  other  case.  The  deed  is  the 
most  black  and  damning  that  I  have  ever  known ;  and  if  I 
had  before  been  an  infidel  I  should  be  converted  by  the 
knowledge  that  such  an  incarnate  scoundrel  must  roast  in 
torment !" 

"And  what  am  I  to  do  ?"  asked  the  girl,  with  that  help- 
less and  irresolute  air  which  is  so  pitiable. 

"  Heaven  help  us  both  !  I  do  not  know  I"  was  the  reply, 
with  the  proud  head  drooping  lower  on  the  breast  than  it 
should  ever  have  been  bowed  by  any  feeling  except  devotion. 

"  I  cannot  remain  here  after  this  !"  she  said.  "  Can  you  not 
take  me  away — do  something  for  me  ?  Does  the — do  the 
same  obstacles  stand  in  your  way  that  stood  there  two  years 
ago  ?" 

"  No — ^not  the  same,  but  worse  !"  answered  the  lawyer, 
bitterly.  "  Oh,  there  never  was  a  child  so  helpless  as  I  am 
at  this  moment.  I  have  wealth,  but  I  cannot  use  it  for  your 
benefit  without  exposing  you  to  final  and  complete  ruin  in 
public  opinion.     And  for  myself — poor  Eleanor,  I  pity  you, 


T  U  K      COW  A  U  1).  171 

God  knows  I  do,  but  I  pity  myself  still  worse.  I  came  to 
tell  you  that  I  am  going  away  this  very  day, — that  I  shall 
not  again  set  foot  within  my  father's  house — perhaps  never 
again  while  I  live, — that  my  spirit  is  crushed  and  my  heart 
broken." 

"  What  has  happened  ?  tell  me  !  The  old  trouble,  Carl- 
ton ?''  asked  the  young  girl,  in  a  tone  of  true  commisera- 
tion. 

"Yes,  the  old  trouble,  and  worse!"  was  the  reply,  fol- 
lowed by  a  rapid  relation  of  the  events  of  the  morning,  and 
concluding  with  these  hopeless  words:  "An  hour  since,  I 
parted  with  the  woman  I  loved  and  hoped  to  make  my  own. 
To-morrow  my  name  may  be  a  scoff  and  a  by-word  in  the 
mouth  of  every  man  who  knows  me.  I  cannot  and  will  not 
meet  this  shame,  which  is  not  hidden  like  your  own,  but  will 
be  blown  abroad  by  the  breath  of  thousands  of  personal 
acquaintances,  and  perhaps  made  the  subject  of  jest  in  the 
public  newspapers.  Think  how  those  who  have  hated  and 
perhaps  feared  me — criminals  whom  I  have  brought  to  justice 
and  thieves  whom  I  have  foiled  in  their  plunderings, — will 
gloat  over  the  knowledge  that  I  can  trouble  them  no  more — • 
that  I  have  fallen  lower,  in  the  public  eye,  than  they  have 
ever  been  !  X  am  going  away,  where  no  man  who  has  ever 
looked  upon  my  face  and  known  it,  can  look  upon  it  again  !" 

The  tone  in  which  Carlton  Brand  spoke  was  one  of  utter 
despondency  and  abandonment.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
sharp,  vigorous  ring  of  that  speech  which  contains  and  de- 
clares a  purpose :  the  words  fell  stolid  and  lifeless  as  hung 
the  head  and  drooped  the  arms  of  the  utterer  in  her  presence 
with  whom  he  held  a  sad  community  of  disgrace. 

"I  understand  you,  and  I  believe  that  your  lot  is  even 
worse  than  my  own  !"  said  Eleanor  Hill,  after  &  moment  of 
silence.  "You  do  right  in  going  away,  and  you  could  not 
help  me  if  you  stayed.  Nothing  can  help  me,  I  suppose. 
Do  not  think  of  me  any  more.  I  can  bear  what  is  to  come, 
quite  as  well  as  I  have  borne   all  that  is  past !"     She  bad 


172  THE      COWARD. 

been  nodding  her  head  mechanically  when  she  commenced 
speaking,  and  at  every  nod  it  sank  lower  and  lower  until  the 
face  was  hidden  from  the  one  friend  whom  she  was  thus 
losing  beyond  recall. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  rapid  foot  on  the  stair-way 
above,  and  the  house  servant  whom  Eleanor  had  managed  to 
keep  in  her  interest  spoke  quickly  at  the  door. 

"  If  you  please,  Miss,  doctor's  carriage  is  coming  through 
the  gate  from  the  Darby  road.  Thought  you  would  like  to 
know  it."  And  as  rapidly  as  she  had  come  down,  she  as- 
cended again  to  her  employment  in  the  attic. 

*'  Oh,  Carlton,  you  must  not  be  seen  here,  now !"  ex- 
claimed the  poor  girl,  her  face  all  fright  and  anxiety,  and 
herself  apparently  forgotten.  Something  in  that  look  and 
tone  smote  the  heart  of  Carlton  Brand  more  deeply  than  it 
had  ever  been  smitten  by  the  sorrow  and  disgrace  of  his  own 
situation ;  and  with  that  feeling  of  intense  compassion  a  new 
thought  was  born  within  him.  "  Yesterday  I  could  not  have 
done  it — to-day  I  can  !"  he  muttered,  so  low  that  the  girl 
could  not  understand  his  words ;  then  he  said  aloud,  and 
speaking  very  rapidly : 

"  I  cannot  meet  him,  and  you  shall  not !  Throw  some- 
thing on  your  head  and  over  your  shoulders,  quick ;  and 
come  with  me  I" 

For  one  instant  the  young  girl  gazed  into  his  face  as  if 
in  doubt  and  hesitation  ;  but  the  repetition  of  a  single  word 
decided  her : 

"  Quick  !" 

A  glow  of  delight  and  surprise  that  had  long  been  a  stranger 
to  her  face,  broke  over  it;  she  ran  to  the  little  bed-room 
adjoining  the  apartment  in  which  they  were  speaking,  threw 
on  a  black-silken  mantle  and  a  sober  little  hat  that  hung 
there,  and  was  ready  in  an  instant.  In  another  Carlton 
Brand  had  seized  her  arm,  hurried  her  out  of  the  room,  down 
the  stairs,  through  the  hall  and  out  into  the  garden  which 
lay  at  the  north  side  of  the  house  and  extended  down  almost 


THE      COWARD.  173 

to  the  edge  of  the  causeway.  Dr.  Pomeroy  was  driving 
down  the  lane  leading  from  the  Darby  road,  and  was  conse- 
quently on  the  opposite  side  of  the  house  from  the  fugitives. 
Fugitives  they  may  well  have  been  called,  though  perhaps 
so  strange  an  "^elopement  had  never  before  been  planned— an 
elopement  over  a  comparatively  open  country  in  the  broad 
light  of  a  summer  noon,  by  two  persons  who  held  no  tie  of 
bfood  and  no  warmer  feeling  for  each  other  than  friendship, 
and  who  had  not  dreamed  of  such  an  act  even  five  minutes 

before. 

But  those  operations  the  most  suddenly  conceived  are  not 
always  the  worst  executed.  Necessity,  if  not  genius,  is  often 
a  successful  imitator  of  that  quality.  When  the  doctor 
drove  up  at  the  gate  in  front  of  the  house,  his  ''ward"  and 
her  new  companion  were  just  dodging  out  of  the  tall  bean- 
poles and  shrubbery,  over  the  garden  fence,  to  the  edge  of 
the  meadow ;  by  the  time  he  had  fairly  entered  the  house 
they  were  on  the  causeway  and  partially  sheltered  by  the 
elders  that  ran  along  it  and  fringed  the  bank  of  the  singing 
brook ;  and  long  before  he  could  have  discovered  the  flight 
and  made  such  inquiries  of  the  servants  as  might  have  di- 
rected his  gaze  in  that  direction,  the  lawyer  in  his  strangely 
soiled  and  unaccustomed  attire,  and  the  girl  so  slightly 
arrayed  for  starting  out  on  her  travels  in  the  w-orld,  were 
within  the  circle  of  woods  before  mentioned,  stretching 
northward  to  the  great  road  leading  down  to  the  city. 


174  THE      COWARD. 

CHArTER   IX. 

Dr.  Pomerot's  purposed  Pursuit — A  plain  Quaker  "who 
used  very  plain  language — almost  a  fight — how 
Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  consoled  her  Daughter,  and  how 
Margaret  revealed  the  Past — A  Compact — Dr.  Pome- 
roy's  Canine  Adventure — Old  Elspeth  once  more — 
A  Search  that  found  Nothing. 

It  will  be  noticed  that  with  the  exception  of  the  somewhat 
extended  glance  at  the  earlier  fortunes  of  Eleanor  Hill,  all 
the  occurrences  thus  far  recorded,  and  affecting  the  after 
lives  of  so  many  different  people,  have  occupied  not  more 
than  two  or  three  hours  of  a  single  June  day.  The  Parcae 
were  evidently  very  busy  on  that  day  of  June,  repaying  the 
past  and  arranging  the  future ;  and  not  less  than  three 
scenes  of  this  veritable  history  yet  remain,  occurring  on  the 
same  day,  a  little  later,  but  within  the  same  space  as  to  dis- 
tance, that  has  been  covered  by  those  preceding. 

The  first  of  these  is  that  presented  in  the  house  of  Dr. 
Pomeroy,  ten  minutes  after  he  had  entered  it,  and  when  two 
or  three  sharp  inquiries  after  his  "ward,"  whom  he  failed  to 
find  in  her  room,  had  elicited  from  one  of  the  frightened  ser- 
vants the  information  not  only  that  she  had  left  the  house, 
through  the  garden,  with  hat  and  mantle  and  in  great  haste, — 
but  in  the  company  of  the  man  of  all  the  world  towards  whom 
the  medical  gentleman  entertained  that  deadliest  hatred  which 
would  have  made  his  drugs  safe  and  reliable  had  he  been  attend- 
ing him  in  a  dangerous  sickness  !  He  might  not  have  known 
the  fact  quite  so  soon,  from  any  of  the  other  servants,  as  he 
certainly  would  not  have  discovered  the  truth  under  a  twelve- 
month from  the  one  who  had  acted  as  Eleanor's  sentinel  oa 
the  watch  tower  ;  but  it  chanced  that  he  possessed  one  crea- 
ture of  his  own,  who  had  been  in  the  habit  of  playing  spy 
around  the  house  generally  and  making  very  considerable 


T  UK       C  U  W  A  li  D.  175 

additions  to  her  wages  from  the  "  appropriation  for  secret 
service";  and  from  that  open-mouthed  person,  who  seemed 
to  see  with  that  organ  as  well  as  with  the  eye^s,  he  had  no 
difticulty  in  extracting  all  the  truth  that  could  be  known,  in 
an  inconceivably  minute  fraction  of  time. 

The  rage  which  broke  out  in  the  face  of  Dr.  Philip  Pome- 
roy  and  set  his  eyes  ablaze,  at  about  that  period,  would  not 
have  been  a  pleasant  thing  to  look  upon,  for  any  person  liable 
to  the  penalties  and  inflictions  which  that  rage  denoted.  Eor 
he  was  a  sharp,  keen,  calculating  man,  jumping  to  a  conclu- 
sion with  great  rapidity,  and  seldomer  missing  the  fact  than 
most  men  under  corresponding  circumstances.  Eleanor  Hill 
was  gone — had  left  his  house  forever,  so  far  as  her  own  will 
had  an}^  power :  he  knew  the  fact  intuitively.  She  would 
never  have  dared  to  cross  the  threshold  with  Carlton  Brand, 
knowing  the  hatred  which  he  held  against  that  man  of  all 
others,  if  she  had  intended  to  place  herself  again  in  a  position 
where  she  could  feel  his  displeasure.  Then  the  doctor  knew, 
as  the  reader  may  by  this  time  be  inclined  to  suspect,  reasons 
w^hy  the  young  girl  w^ould  have  been  much  more  likely  to 
leave  his  house  forever,  that  day,  than  at  any  previous  time 
of  her  sojourn,  if  aid  and  protection  chanced  to  offer  them- 
selves. They  had  offered  themselves,  in  the  shape  of  the 
lawyer :  they  had  been  embraced  ;  and  the  good  physician, 
hurling  a  few  outward  curses  at  the  servant  who  had  afforded 
him  the  intelligence,  at  all  the  other  servants,  at  the  house 
and  every  thing  within  it, — mentally  included  in  his  maledic- 
tion every  patient  who  had  assisted  in  luring  him  away  from 
his  home  that  day,  while  such  a  spoil  was  being  made  of  his 
*' domestic  happiness." 

The  worst  of  the  affair— and  the  doctor  saw  it — was  that 
Eleanor  Hill  had  attained  her  majority  years  before,  and  that 
he  had  no  power  whatever  to  compel  her  return,  except  that 
power  still  existed  in  the  impending  threat  of  public  shame. 
But  he  was  wronged — robbed — outraged  !  He  would  pursue 
the  fugitive — fmd  her — force  her  to  abandon  her  new  pro- 


176  THE      COWARD. 

tection — drag  her  by  main  force  from  any  arm  that  dared  to 
interpose  I  If  he  failed,  he  would  make  such  a  general  deso- 
lation in  family  peace,  in  the  quiet  neighborhood  lying  beyond 
that  side  the  Schuylkill,  as  had  never  been  known  within  the 
memory  of  the  "  oldest  inhabitant" — such  an  expose,  convul- 
sion and  general  explosion  as  would  put  out  of  countenance 
any  thing  in  the  power  of  the  advancing  rebel  Lee  ! 

All  this  in  the  two  minutes  following  the  knowledge  of 
Eleanor's  flight.  The  ostler  had  just  led  round  his  heated 
horse  to  the  stable,  before  the  discovery  ;  and  that  functionary 
had  orders  shot  at  him  from  the  back  piazza,  in  a  ver}^  loud 
and  commanding  voice,  to  throw  the  harness  on  another  of 
his  fastest  trotters,  and  have  him  round  at  the  gate  in  less 
than  half  a  minute,  before  his  double-seated  buggy,  on  pain 
of  being  flayed  alive  with  his  own  horse-whip.  It  may  be 
supposed  that  under  such  incitement  the  stable  official  handled 
strap  and  buckle  with  unusual  dexterity ;  and  in  very  little 
more  time  than  that  allowed  by  the  regulation,  the  vehicle 
dashed  round  to  the  gate,  and  the  enraged  owner  stood  whip 
in  hand,  ready  to  leap  into  it  and  urge  a  pursuit  yet  madder 
than  had  been  the  elopement.  But  Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy, 
having  prepared  to  ride  at  once  and  with  all  diligence,  found 
an  unexpected  hindrance,  and  did  not  pursue  his  journey  until 
H  much  more  advantageous  start  had  been  allowed  to  the 
fugitives. 

For  while  the  doctor  was  preparing  to  spring  into  his 
vehicle,  down  the  lane  from  the  Darby  road  dashed  the 
buggy  and  pair  of  Xathan  Bladesden,  which  had  so  lately 
taken  that  direction-^dashed  down,  driven  at  such  speed  as 
flung  the  fine  horses  into  a  lather  of  foam,  and  utterly  belied 
the  calm  reputation  of  the  Quaker  merchant.  Nor  was  there 
any  thing  of  the  deliberation  of  the  sect  in  the  jerk  with 
which  he  brought  up  the  flying  team  by  throwing  them  both 
back  upon  their  haunches,  or  the  suddenness  with  which  he 
sprang  from  the  buggy,  leaving  the  horses  unfastened,  and 
strode  to  the  open  gate. 


THE      COWARD.  177 

The  rencontre  was  most  inopportune  and  vexatious  to  the 
doctor,  to  whom  minutes  just  then  were  hours ;  and  he  may 
have  had  motives  for  wishing,  that  day,  not  to  be  placed 
beneath  an  eye  so  sharpened  by  age  and  experience.  But 
Nathan  Bladesden  was  a  man  of  wealth  and  a  power  in  the 
city,  and  not  even  Dr.  Pomeroy  could  afford  to  treat  him 
with  rudeness  by  driving  away  at  the  very  moment  of  his 
arrival.  He  smoothed  his  bent  brows,  therefore,  and  accosted 
him  with  every  demonstration  of  interest. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Bladesden  !  You  seem  to  have 
been  driving  fast  !  But  you  come  just  in  time,  for  I  was 
about  starting  in  a  hurry  to — to  see  a  patient." 

Had  Dr.  Pomeroy  been  aware  of  all  the  circumstances  con- 
nected with  the  morning  call  of  the  merchant— the  shameful 
revelations  made  in  the  little  room  overhead — the  agony  of 
spirit  in  which  the  Quaker  had  forced  himself  away  from  the 
presence  of  Eleanor  Hill,  deserting  her  utterly  and  leaving 
her  in  such  a  state  of  suffering  as  made  suicide  very  possible 
— and  the  continued  and  ever-deepening  conflict  which  had 
since  been  going  on  in  his  mhid,  as  he  dashed  along  roads 
that  led  him  nowhere,  his  horses  foaming  in  the  heat  but  the 
heat  in  his  brain  a  thousand  times  more  intense,  until  at  last 
he  had  driven  back  determined  to  drag  the  young  girl,  at 
every  hazard  and  sacrifice,  from  that  moral  pest-house  which 
must  be  sure  infection  and  death  to  her  soul, — had  Dr.  Pome- 
roy known  all  this,  we  say,  not  even  his  hardy  spirit  might 
have  been  willing  to  brave  the  encounter.  But  he  knew 
nothing,  and  some  of  the  perilous  consequences  of  ignorance 
followed. 

"  I  did  not  come  to  see  thee,  Dr.  Philip,"  replied  the  Quaker 
to  his  salutation,'passing  on  meanwhile  towards  the  ^ront  door, 
and  something  short  and  choppy  in  his  words  indicating  that 
he  did  not  wish  to  open  his  mouth  at  full  freedom.  "I  saw 
thy  ward,  Eleanor  Hill,  this  morning,  and  I  am  going  to  see 
her  again." 

"Ah,  you  have  been  here  to-day,  then,  before  ?     And  you 
11 


178  THE      COWARD. 

are  going  to  see  her  again,  after  — ."'  It  was  sur]^rising,  for 
a  man  of  his  age  and  experience,  how  near  he  came  to  saying 
a  word  too  much  ! 

"After  receiving  thy  letter  1 — yes!"  answered  the  Quaker, 
turning  short  and  confronting  his  quondam  host,  the  restraint 
on  his  utterance  removed. 

''My  letter  ?  "What  do  you  mean  by  ray  letter  ?"  Had 
any  one  told  Philip  Pomeroy,  half  an  hour  before,  that  there 
was  a  man  living  who  in  five  words  could  change  the  color  on 
his  cheek,  he  would  have  reckoned  the  informant  a  liar  and 
grossly  insulted  him.  Yet  so  it  was  ;  and  the  flush,  though 
it  was  already  growing  into  that  of  defiant  anger,  had  not  been 
such  when  it  began  to  rise. 

*'  Thee  does  not  seem  to  understand  me,  Dr.  Philip,"  said 
the  Quaker,  his  words  still  slow  and  no  point  of  the  sectarian 
idiom  lost,  but  each  dropping  short  and  curtly  as  if  a  weighty 
substance  falling  heavily.  "But  thee  will  understand  me 
before  I  am  done.  Thee  wrote  me  a  letter,  signed  'A  True 
Friend'—" 

"  You  lie  !"  A  terrible  word,  to  be  flung  into  the  teeth  of 
any  man  ;  and  doubly  terrible  as  hurled  from  lips  then  ashy 
w^hite.  For  just  one  instant  the  Quaker's  large  hands 
clutched,  and  he  might  have  been  moved  to  advance  upon  his 
insulter  and  avenge  Eleanor  Hill,  himself  and  all  the  world, 
by  choking  the  insult  from  his  throat.  But  if  such  a  thought 
really  moved  him,  he  controlled  it  and  merely  smote  on  with 
his  words. 

"  Thee  wrote  me  a  letter,  signed  'A  True  Friend,'  and  thee 
shall  have  my  opinion  of  it,  before  I  go  into  that  house  and 
remove  from  thee,  at  any  peril  that  may  be  necessary,  the 
poor  girl  thee  has  disgraced." 

"  Set  a' foot  nearer  that  house,  if  you  dare  !"  was  the  reply. 

■  "  Thee  is  a  base,  miserable  coward,  Dr.  Philip  !  —  a 
scoundrel,  a  seducer,  a  lying  slanderer,  the  offspring  of  a 
female  dog  of  the  cur  species,  a  disgrace  to  thy  country  and 


THK      COWARD.  179 

thy  profession ;  and  if  thee  knows  any  more  hard  words  that 
I  forget,  thee  may  put  them  all  in  on  my  account." 

"Xathan  Bludesden,  do  you  think  that  you  will  leave  this 
spot  alive,  after  using  such  words  to  me  P^  and  the  hands  of 
Philip  Pomeroy  were  clutching  at  his  wristbands  as  if  rolling 
them  up  to  put  them  out  of  the  way  of  blood  !  The  purpose 
of  attack  was  reversed  :  he  seemed  to  be  about  to  spring, 
tiger-like,  at  the  Quaker's  throat. 

''Thee  will  not  kill  me,  Dr.  Philip,  if  I  do  not  1"  the  latter 
said.  ''  I  am  stronger  than  thee,  and  have  a  better  cause.  I 
think  I  will  not  touch  thee,  but  leave  thee  to  thy  Maker,  if 
thee  keeps  thy  hands  off ;  but  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  if 
thee  touches  me,  to  beat  thee  until  thee  has  no  shape  of  a  man 
. — until  thee  is  dead  as  yonder  gate-post.  If  thee  thinks  that 
I  will  not,  thee  had  better  try  it  I" 

Dr.  Pomeroy  did  not  believe  himself  a  poltroon,  nor  was  he 
one  in  that  senile  relating  to  purely  physical  courage.  And 
had  there  been  merely  involved  a  conflict  with  that  larger, 
stronger  and  better-preserved  man,  in  which  one  or  the  other 
might  suffer  severe  injury  and  disiiguremeut,  he  would  have 
carried  out  his  thought  and  sprung  upon  him,  beyond  a 
question.  But  something  in  those  slow  dropping  pellets  of 
compressed  rage  falling  from  the  Quaker's  lips,  told  the  medi- 
cal man  (seldom  too  angry  to  be  subtle  and  cunning),  that  in 
the  event  of  a  struggle,  and  the  merchant  getting  the  upper 
hand,  he  would  probably  carry  out  his  threat  and  actually  beat 
him  to  death  with  those  heavy  fists  before  any  human  aid  could 

interpose.     And  to  be  mangled  into  a  corpse  by  a  Quaker 

bah  !  there  was  really  something  in  the  idea,  likely  to  calm 
blood  quite  as  hot  with  rage  as  that  of  Dr.  Philip— apart  from 
the  slight  objection  he  may  have  had  to  being  hurried  into 
eternity  in  any  way,  at  that  moment.  Then  another  thought 
struck  him — a  double  one  :  how  completely  the  Quaker  would 
be  at  fault,  searching  through  the  house  for  Eleanor  Hill; 
and  how  he  was  himself  losing  time,  in  that  miserable  quarrel 
— time  that  could  never  be  regained.     His  horse  and  buggy 


180  TUE      COWARD. 

stood  all  the  while  just  within  the  opened  gate,  where  the 
ostler  had  left  it  and  gone  back  to  his  care  of  the  blown 
animal  at  the  stable  ;  and  as  that  important  reflection  forced 
itself  upon  his  mind,  he  turned  his  back  short  upon  the 
Quaker,  strode  to  his  buggy,  stepped  into  it  and  dashed 
away,  only  pausing  to  hurl  at  his  tormentor  this  one  verbal 
bolt  : 

"  You  infernal,  snuffling,  hypocritical  ruffian  !  I  will  settle 
with  you  for  all  this,  when  I  have  more  time  !" 

"  Thee  had  better  let  the  account  stand  as  it  does.  Dr. 
Philip,  if  thee  is  not  a  fool  as  well  as  a  scoundrel  !"  was  the 
reply  of  the  Quaker,  but  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  the 
doctor  heard  half  the  words.  He  was  already  flying  past 
the  garden  palings,  at  the  full  speed  of  his  trotter,  towards 
the  causeway  and  the  Market  Street  road,  on  his  errand  of 
reclamation  and  perhaps  of  vengeance.  Then  Xathan  Blades- 
den  pursued  his  way  into  the  house,  looking  for  the  lost  sheep, 
with  that  ill  success  rendered  certain  by  Eleanor's  flight,  and 
that  disappointment  which  often  attends  noble  resolutions 
embraced  one  moment  too  late. 


The  second  of  the  supplementary  scenes  of  that  day  was  pre- 
sented in  the  parlors  of  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley 
— that  parlor  into  which  the  reader  had  only  a  doubtful  glance 
a  few  hours  earlier,  when  events  w^hich  seemed  likely  to  af- 
fect the  life-long  interests  of  some  of  the  residents  of  that 
house,  were  occurring  on  the  piazza. 

Rich  furniture  in  rosewood  and  purple  damask  ;  a  piano  of 
modern  manufacture,  the  open  bank  of  keys  showing  the  soft 
coolness  of  mother-of-pearl ;  carpets  of  English  tapestry ; 
pier  glasses  that  might  have  given  reflection  to  the  colonel 
of  a  Maine  regiment  or  one  of  the  sons  of  Anak ;  tables  and 
mantels  strewn  but  not  overloaded  with  delicate  bronzes, 
gems  in  porcelain  and  Bohemian  glass,  and  articles  of  fanci- 
ful bijouterie  ;  on  one  of  the  mantels — that  of  the  front  room 
—Cleopatra  in  ormolu  upholding  the  dial  of  a  clock  with  one 


THE      COWARD.  181 

hand,  but  with  the  other  applying  to  her  voluptuously-rounded 
bosom  the  asp  so  soon  to  put  a  period  to  all  her  connectioa 
with  time  ; — what  need  of  more  than  this  to  indicate  the 
home  in  which  Margaret  Hayley  had  passed  the  last  few 
years  of  her  young  life  and  approached  that  crisis  so  momen- 
tous to  her  future  happiness  ?  Yet  one  thing  more  must  be 
noticed — the  stand  of  rosewood  elaborately  carved,  set  not  far 
from  the  centre  of  the  front  parlor,  and  bearing  on  it  a  large 
Bible  in  the  full  luxury  of  russet  morocco  and  gold,  with 
massive  gold  clasps  and  a  heavy  marker  in  silk  and  bullion 
dependent  from  amid  the  leaves, — the  whole  somewhat  osten- 
tatiously displayed  to  the  sight  of  any  one  who  first  entered 
the  room,  as  if  to  say:  "  There  may  seem  to  be  pomps  and 
vanities  in  this  house,  but  any  such  impression  would  be  a 
mistake  :  this  book  is  the  rule  by  which  every  thing  within  it 
is  squared." 

On  the  sofa,  wheeled  into  that  corner  of  the  luxurious 
parlor  upon  which  the  closed  shutter  threw  the  deepest  and 
coolest  shadow,  lay  Margaret  Hayley,  her  head  buried  in  the 
white  pillow  which  some  careful  hand  had  brought  for  her, 
and  her  thrown-up  hands  drawing  the  ends  of  that  pillow 
around  her  face  as  if  she  desired  to  shut  away  every  sight 
and  every  sound.  Her  slight,  tall  figure  seemed,  as  she  lay 
at  length,  to  be  limp  and  unnerved  ;  and  there  was  that  in 
the  whole  position  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  the  mental 
energies,  if  not  the  vital  ones,  had  recoiled  after  being  cruelly 
overtasked,  and  left  her  alike  incapable  of  thought  and 
motion. 

She  was  not  alone,  for  beside  her  sat  a  lady  dressed  in  very 
thin  and  light  but  rich  and  rather  showy  summer  costume, 
rolling  backward  and  forward  in  her  Boston  rocker,  waving 
a  feather  fan  of  such  formidable  dimensions  that  its  manufac- 
ture must  have  created  a  sudden  rise  in  the  material  imme- 
diately after,  and  talking  all  the  while  with  such  stately 
volubility  as  if  she  believed  that  the  hot  air  of  the  June 
afternoon  would  be  less  unendurable  if  kept  constantly  in  mo- 


182  THE      COWARD. 

tiou  by  the  personal  windmill  of  the  tongue.  This  was  Mrs. 
Burton  Hayley,  mother  of  Margaret,  widow  of  the  late  Mr. 
Burton  Hayley,  railroad-contractor,  snugly  jointured  with 
eight  or  ten  thousand  per  annum,  and  endowed  (as  she  her- 
self believed,  and  as  we  will  certainly  endeavor  to  believe 
with  her,  in  charity)  with  so  many  of  those  higher  gifts  and 
graces  of  a  spiritual  order  that  her  wealth  had  become  dross 
and  her  liberal  income  rather  a  thing  to  be  deplored  than 
otherwise.  (It  may  be  the  proper  place,  here,  to  say  that 
the  gilt  Bible  on  the  stand  was  the  peculiar  arrangement  of 
this  lady,  and  the  sign — if  so  mercantile  a  word  may  be  ap- 
plied to  any  thing  really  demanding  all  human  respect  and 
devotion — of  that  peculiar  mental  stock  in  trade  which  she 
was  to  be  found  most  ready  in  exhibiting  on  all  occasions.) 

Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  was  tall — even  taller  than  her  daugh- 
ter ;  and  her  form  had  assumed,  with  advancing  years,  a 
fulness  which  the  complimentary  would  have  designated  as 
"plump,"  the  irreverent  as  "stout,"  and  the  vulgar  as  "fat." 
Her  face,  moulded  somewhat  after  the  same  fashion  as  that 
of  Margaret,  must  have  been  undeniably  handsome  in  youth, 
though  now — the  truth  must  be  told — it  was  not  a  specially 
lovable  face  to  the  acute  observer.  Her  dark  eyes  had  still 
kept  their  depths  of  beautiful  shadow,  and  her  intensely  dark 
hair  (though  she  had  married  late  in  girlhood  and  was  now 
fifty)  showed  neither  thinness  nor  any  touch  of  gray.  But 
the  long  and  once  classical  features  had  become  coarsened  a 
little  in  the  secondary  formation  of  adipose  particles;  the 
possible  paleness  of  girlhood  had  given  place  to  a  slight  red 
flush  (especially  in  that  tropical  weather)  that  was  not  by  any 
means  becoming  to  her ;  and  there  were  all  the  while  two 
conflicting  expressions  fighting  for  prominence  in  her  face,  so 
different  in  themselves  and  so  really  impossible  of  amalga- 
mation, that  the  most  rabid  disciple  of  "miscegenation"  could 
not  have  arranged  a  plan  for  blending  them  both  into  one. 
The  outer  expression,  which  seemed  somehow  to  lie  as  a  thin 
transparent  strata  over  the  other,  indicated  pious  and  resigned 


THE      COWARD.  183 

liiimility — that  feeling  which  passes  by  the  ordiuarj  accidents 
and  troubles  of  life  as  merely  gentle  trials  of  faith  and  of  no 
consequence  in  view  of  the  great  truth  rooted  within.  The 
second  and  inner,  which  would  persist  in  obtruding  itself 
through  the  transparent  mask,  was  pride — pride  in  its  most 
intense  and  concentrated  form — pride  in  blood,  wealth,  per- 
sonal appearance,  position,  every  thing  belonging  to  and 
going  to  make  up  that  marvellous  human  compound,  Mrs. 
Burton  H^ley.  The  eyes  were  trained  to  be  very  subdued 
and  decorous  in  their  expression ;  but  they  did  so  want  to 
flash  out  authority,  if  not  arrogance  !  The  nose  was  kept 
ahvaj^s  (or  generally)  at  the  proper  subservient  level ;  but  it 
did  so  itch  and  tingle  for  the  privilege  of  lifting  itself  high  in 
air  and  taking  a  nasal  view,  from  that  altitude,  of  all  the  world 
lying  below  it !  It  was  very  evident,  to  any  one  observing 
the  mother  after  having  examined  the  daughter's  face  in  the 
clear  light  of  physiognomy,  that  the  latter  had  derived  from 
her  maternal  progenitor  most  of  that  overweening  pride  which 
youth  and  beauty  yet  wore  as  a  crown  of  glory  but  age  might 
wear  as  something  much  less  attractive, — and  that  she  must 
have  inherited  from  her  dead  father  that  softness,  frankness, 
and  that  better-developed  love-nature  which  toned  down  in 
her  own  all  the  more  decided  features  of  the  mother's  face 
and  made  her  worthy  of  affection  as  well  as  admiration. 

As  we  have  said,  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  was  using  her  tongue 
with  great  volubility  at  the  moment  of  her  introduction  to 
the  attention  of  the  reader,  though  really  the  mode  in  which 
her  single  auditor  kept  her  head  buried  in  the  pillow  and 
drew  the  soft  folds  around  her  ears  with  both  hands,  did  not 
indicate  that  desire  for  steady  conversation  which  could  have 
made  such  a  continual  verbal  clatter  a  thing  of  necessity. 
There  is  the  more  occasion  for  giving  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley 
her  full  opportunity  for  speech,  as  she  has  occasion  to  utter 
but  little  hereafter,  in  this  connection. 

"  You  should  be  very  thankful,  my  child,  for  all  that  has 
occurred,"  the  voluble  woman  was  saying.     ''A  Power  higher 


184:  THE      COWARD. 

than  ourselves  overrules  all  these  affairs  much  better  than 
we  could  do  ;  and  it  is  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence  to  cry 
and  go  on  over  little  disappointments." 

A  pause  of  one  instant,  and  one  instant  only,  as  if  in 
expectation  that  some  reply  would  be  vouchsafed  ;  and  then 
the  band  was  again  thrown  upon  the  driving- wheel — as  one 
of  the  machinery-tenders  in  a  factory  might  say, — and  the 
human  buzz-saw  whirled  once  more. 

"  I  have  told  you,  child,  time  and  again,  that  you  would  be 
punished  for  setting  your  affections  on  any  person  who  had 
not  given  evidence  of  a  changed  heart— a  man  who  had 
not  passed  from  death  unto  life,  but  who  still  ran  after  the 
pomps  and  vanities  of  the  world — those  pomps  and  vanities 
which  religion  teaches  us  to  despise  and  put  away  from  us.'' 
(Oh,  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley,  why  did  you  not  catch  a  glance, 
at  that  moment,  of  the  room  in  which  you  were  sitting,  redo- 
lent of  every  luxury  within  the  reach  of  any  ordinary  wealth, 
and  of  your  own  stately  and  still  comely  person,  arrayed  in 
garments  the  least  possible  like  those  with  which  people  con- 
tent themselves  who  have  really  eschewed  the  "  pomps  and 
vanities  of  the  world,"  either  from  conscientious  humility  or 
that  other  and  much  commoner  motive — the  lack  of  means  to 
continue  them  I)  "  You  should  be  very  glad  that  you  have 
been  providentially  delivered  from  your  engagement  with  an 
unbeliever  and  a  man  of  the  world — a  man  without  principle, 
I  dare  say,  as  you  have  discovered  that  he  is  without  courage  ; 
aiid  all  the  money  there  is  in  his  family  (and  they  do  say  that 
the  Brands  have  not  much  and  never  have  had  much  !) — all 
their  money,  I  say,  acquired  in  the  disreputable  practice  of 
the  law,  so  that  if  this  thing  had  not  happened  and  you  had 
been  left  to  depend  for  subsistence  upon  his  fortune,  you 
might  have  found  it  all  melting  away  in  a  moment,  as  money 
dishonestly  acquired  is  certain  to  do  ;  for  does  not  the  blessed 
book  that  I  try  to  make  my  rule  of  life,  say,  my  child,  that 
moth  is  certain  to  corrupt  and  thieves  break  through  and  steal 
whatever  has  been  wrung  from  the  widow  and  the  orphan?" 


THE      COWARD.  185 

Margaret  Hayley  had  not  replied  a  word  during  the  whole 
application  of  that  verbal  instrument  of  torture,  though  it 
seemed  evident  from  the  context  that  some  conversation  em- 
ploying the  tongues  of  both  must  have  passed  at  an  earlier 
period  of  the  interview.  She  had  merely  writhed  in  body 
and  groaned  in  spirit,  as  every  moment  told  her  more  and 
more  distinctly  that  in  her  dark  hour  she  had  no  mother  who 
could  understand  and  sympathize  with  her — that  cant  phrases 
and  pious  generalizations  were  to  be  hurled  against  her  at 
that  moment  when  most  of  all  she  needed  to  be  treated  by 
that  mother  like  a  wearied  child,  drawn  home  to  her  bosom 
and  cradled  to  sleep  amid  soothing  words  and  loving  kisses. 

But  Margaret  Hayley  did  something  else  than  writhe  when 
the  accusation  of  having  acquired  his  wealth  by  dishonesty  was 
cast  upon  the  man  whom  she  had  worshipped — yes,  the  man 
whom  she  worshipped  still,  in  spite  of  the  one  terrible  defect 
which  seemed  to  draw  an  eternal  line  of  separation  between 
them.  She  started  up  from  her  recumbent  position,  her  hair 
dishevelled,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping,  and  her  whole  face 
marked  and  marred  by  the  anguish  she  had  been  suffering, — 
sprang  up  erect  at  once,  with  all  her  mother's  pride  manifest 
in  voice  and  gesture,  and  said  : 

"  Mother,  are  you  a  rank  hypocrite,  or  have  you  neither 
sense  nor  memory  ?" 

A  strange  question,  from  a  daughter  to  her  mother !  The 
reply  was  not  quite  so  strange,  and  it  seemed  to  have  much 
more  of  earnest  in  it  than  any  portion  of  the  long  tirade  she 
had  before  been  delivering : 

"  Margaret  Hayley,  how  dare  you  !" 

"  We  can  dare  a  good  many  things,  when  we  do  not  care 
whether  we  live  or  die  !"  was  the  reply.  "And  though  I 
Jiave  loved  and  respected  you  as  my  mother,  I  do  not  know 
that  I  have  ever  been  afraid  of  you.  Now  listen.  You  have 
hated  Carlton  Brand,  ever  since  he  first  came  to  this  house, 
because  he  did  not  treat  your  religious  assumptions  with  quite 
as  much  deference  as  you  considered  proper.     He  may  have 


186  THE      C  O  W  A  R  D. 

been  right,  or  wrong  :  no  matter  now,  as  he  is  out  of  the  way  I 
But  you  have  hated  him,  and  you  know  it — because  I  loved 
him — I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  it ! — loved  him  with  my 
whole  soul,  as  I  believed  that  he  deserved — as  any  woman 
should  love  the  man  whom  she  expects  to  take  her  to  his 
heart !" 

"  Well,  what  if  I  did  dislike  him?  I  had  a  right  to  do 
that,  I  suppose  !"  answered  the  mother,  her  voice  no  longer 
religiously  calm,  but  rough  and  querulous. 

"  Do  not  interrupt  me  ! — hear  me  out !"  said  the  young 
girl.  "  You  liked  Hector  Coles  for  a  corresponding  reason — 
because  he  pretended  to  fall  into  all  your  notions,  and  com- 
plimented you  on  your  *  piety'  and  *  Christian  dignity,'  when 
he  was  all  the  while  laughing  at  you  behind  your  back.  You 
would  have  been  pleased  to  see  me  discard  the  man  I  loved, 
and  marry  the  man  I  could  never  love  while  I  lived, — because 
your  own  likes  and  dislikes  were  in  the  way,  and  because  you 
believed  that  in  the  position  of  mother-in-law  you  could 
manage  the  one  and  could  not  manage  the  other." 

''Well,  what  else,  to  your  mother.  Miss  Impertinence!" 
broke  in  the  lady  who  had  been  so  voluble. 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal  more  !''  answered  Margaret,  with  a 
manner  not  very  different  from  a  sneer.  "  To-day,  since  you 
have  known  that  for  one  spot  on  a  character  otherwise  so 
noble,  I  have  broken  off  all  relations  with  Carlton  Brand,  you 
have  done  nothing  but  sit  here  and  preach  me  Christian  resig- 
nation in  words  that  your  own  heart  was  as  steadily  denying. 
When  a  true  mother  would  have  tried  to  console,  you  have 
tortured.  And  you  have  ended  all  by  alleging  that  Carlton 
Brand  and  his  father  have  acquired  their  money  dishonorably, 
because  they  have  both  been  lawyers, — and  that  such  money 
must  be  accursed  in  the  hands  of  any  one  who  holds  it." 

"  I  have  said  so,  and  I  hav£  a  right  to  say  so  I"  echoed  the 
mother,  "  You  may  let  loose  your  ribald  tongue  against  the 
author  of  your  being,  ungrateful  girl ;  but  the  truth  is  from 
heaven,  and  must  be  told — wealth  obtained  in  any  manner  by 


THE      COWARD.  187 

day,  upon  which  a  blessing  cannot  be  asked  at  night,  is  itself 
accursed,  and  curses  every  one  who  partakes  in  the  use  of  it." 

"And  every  dollar  that  has  been  dishonestly  obtained,  then, 
should  at  once  be  restored  to  the  rightful  owner,  I  suppose — 
in  order  to  escape  the  curse  ?"  suggested  Margaret. 

*'  Every  dollar,  and  at  once  ;  for,  as  the  Bible  says,  the 
spoiler  cometh  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  and  no  one  can  say  how 
soon  the  judgment  may  fall  1"  answered  the  mother,  trium- 
phantly and  in  full  confidence  that  she  had  at  last  silenced  her 
refractory  child  by  a  strictly  orthodox  quotation. 

"  How  much  are  we  worth,  mother  ?"  was  the  singular  ques- 
tion which  followed  this  supposed  annihilation  of  all  argument. 

"  Why,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  we  have  eighty 
thousand  in  stocks  and  in  bank ;  and  this  property  and  that 
at  Pottsville  is  believed  to  be  worth  twenty  or  thirty  thousand 
more.  We  are  worth,  as  you  call  it,  more  than  a  hundred 
thousand,  and  the  whole  of  it  will  be  yours  some  day — not 
very  long  first,  when  I  have  gone,  as  I  hope  and  trust  I  may 
say,  to  my  reward.  You  are  rich,  my  child,  and  I  am  glad 
to  see  that  you  think  of  these  things  at  last,  as  you  may  be 
kept  from  throwing  yourself  away  again.^' 

The  voice  and  whole  manner  of  the  mother  w^ere  much 
more  amiable  than  they  had  been  at  any  time  since  the  rising 
of  her  daughter  from  the  sofa  ;  for  nothing  seemed  to  restore 
the  tone  of  her  agitated  feeling  like  references,  from  whatever 
source,  to  her  wealth  and  position. 

"  A  hundred  thousand.  There  is  not  nearly  enough,  then  !'* 
The  words  were  half  muttered,  but  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley 
distinctly  heard  them.  And  she  saw  something  on  the  face 
of  the  young  girl  which  she  by  no  means  understood,  as  the 
latter  drew  from  her  bosom  the  lower  ends  of  the  gold  chain 
depending  there,  and  unclasped  the  back  of  a  rather  large 
and  very  thick  locket,  the  front  of  which  presented  a  minia- 
ture in  ivory  of  the  handsome,  well- whiskered  and  pleasant- 
looking  Mr.  Burton  Hayley,  her  deceased  father.  Though 
she  raised  the  locket  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it  reverently,  that 


188  THE      COWARD. 

something  on  the  face  had  not  changed  when  she  took  from 
its  unsuspected  concealment  a  small  slip  of  newspaper,  neatly 
folded  and  of  size  enough  to  contain  some  twenty  or  thirty 
lines  of  small  type.  The  mother's  eyes  were  by  this  time 
wide  open  with  astonishment  and  partial  fear  that  her 
daughter  had  lost  her  wits  in  the  agitation  of  that  day.  The 
paper  looked  old  and  yellow.     Margaret  unrolled  it  and  said  : 

*'  Mother,  here  is  something  that  I  have  carried  with  me 
night  and  day  for  five  years  past.  I  found  it  at  that  time, 
when  clipping  old  newspapers  in  the  attic,  for  my  scrap-book. 
I  marked  the  date  on  the  back — it  is  eighteen  years  old,  and 
the  paper  was  a  Harrisburgh  one  of  that  time.  Have  you 
your  glasses  with  you,  or  shall  I  read  it  ?" 

"  Why,  child,  are  you  crazy  ?  What  has  that  slip  of  paper 
to  do  with  the  subject  of  which  we  were  talking  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  can  tell  quite  as  well  as  myself,  after  I  read 
it,"  answered  Margaret.'  And  she  moved  nearer  to  the  one 
unshuttered  window  of  the  parlor,  to  secure  a  better  light  for 
the  small  type  and  dingy  paper,  the  face  of  her  mother 
gradually  changing,  meanwhile,  from  the  surprise  which  had 
filled  it,  to  a  whiteness  which  seemed  born  of  terror.  Mar- 
garet read  : 

"  SouTTER  AND  OTHERS  VS.  Hatlet  ajtd  OTHERS. — This  somewhat 
remarkable  railroad  case  closed  yesterday,  and  the  complaint  was 

dismissed.     Judge  L ,  in  granting  the  motion  for  a  dismissal, 

took  occasion  to  remark  that  he  had  seldom  performed  a  more 
painful  duty.  That  the  railroad  company  had  been  defrauded  to 
the  extent  of  not  less  than  eighty  thousand  dollars  by  Burtou 
Hayley,  the  contractor,  was  one  of  the  conclusions — the  learned 
judge  said — in  which  all  would  unfortunately  agree.  But  tho 
operation  had  been  managed  with  great  skill,  and  legal  evidence 
of  what  was  morally  certain  had  not  been  produced.  He  should 
therefore  grant  the  motion,  with  the  regret  expressed,  and  with  the 
hope  that  in  a  future  prosecution  the  evidence  which  was  certainly 
demanded  might  be  forthcoming,  and  the  defrauded  company  at 
least  find  themselves  in.  a  position  to  punish  the  wrong-doer.  We 
hear  it  stated,  upon  authority  which  seems  reliable,  that  Hayley 
has  heretofore  been  known  as  a  reliable  man,  and  that  he  has  un- 


THE      COWARD.  189 

doubtedly  been  urged  to  steps  wliich  he  must  regret  during  bis 
whole  life,  even  if  justice  does  not  reach  him,  or  conscience  compel 
him  to  make  restitution, — by  the  demands  made  upon  him  in  behalf 
of  a  ruinously  expensive  family,  and  by  evil  advice  which  he  has 
no  doubt  received  from  the  same  quarter.  Hayley  will  probably 
leave  Harrisburgh  at  once,  to  enjoy  what  may  be  left  of  his  ill- 
gotten  gains  in  some  locality  where  his  antecedents  are  less  fully 
understood." 

Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  had  sunk  back  into  her  chair  at  the 
moment  when  Margaret  read  the  first  words,  and  she  re- 
mained silent  till  the  close.  Her  face  was  white,  except  that 
a  single  red  spot  burned  in  the  very  centre  of  either  cheek. 
Her  daughter  looked  steadily  upon  her  for  an  instant  after 
she  had  concluded.  Still  neither  spoke.  The  mother's  eyes 
had  in  them  something  of  that  baleful  light  shown  by  the 
orbs  of  a  wild  beast  when  driven  to  its  corner ;  and  they, 
with  the  crimson  spotted  cheeks,  were  not  pleasant  things  to 
look  upon.     At  last  Margaret  asked  : 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  this  before  ?  Was  that  man  my 
father  ?" 

"  What  of  it  ?  Yes  !"  The  words  were  nearer  spat  out 
than  spoken.  Margaret  glanced,  perhaps  involuntarily,  at 
the  ostentatious  Bible  on  its  carved  stand. 

"Was  that  money  ever  repaid  to  the  railroad  company?" 

For  just  one  instant  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  moved 
as  if  she  was  about  to  utter  a  falsehood  little  less  black  than 
the  original  crime  had  been.  If  she  had  for  that  instant  in- 
tended to  do  so,  she  thought  better  of  it  and  jerked  out : 
"  How  should  I  know  ?  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  in  telling 
a  lie  about  it,  to  you!     'No  1" 

"So  I  thought!"  said  Margaret  Hayley.  "That  eighty 
thousand  dollars,  then,  has  been  standing  for  fifteen  years, 
and  the  interest  upon  it  would  nearly  double  the  sum.  We 
owe  that  railroad  company,  or  so  many  members  of  the 
original  company  as  may  be  yet  alive,  not  less  than  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  dollars.     We  have  only  an  hundred 


190  THE      COWARD. 

thousand  or  a  very  little  more,  but  that  will  be  something. 
Of  course,  after  what  you  have  just  said  of  the  curse  that 
clings  to  ill-gotten  gain,  you  will  join  me  in  paying  over 
every  dollar  in  our  possession,  at  once." 

Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  sprang  up  from  her  chair  with  more 
celerity  than  she  had  before  exhibited.  "Margaret  Hayley, 
are  you  a  born  fool  ?"  she  almost  screamed. 

"  l!!i 0,  nor  a  horn  hypocrite !^^  the  young  girl  replied.  Again 
her  eyes  went  round  to  the  Bible,  and  those  of  the  mother 
followed  hers  as  if  they  were  compelled  by  a  charm.  Then 
those  of  the  latter  drooped,  and  they  did  not  rise  again  as  she 
said,  la  a  much  lower  voice  : 

"  You  know  the  secret.  I  am  in  your  power.  But  T  am 
your  mother,  and  it  may  be  quite  as  well  for  you  to  be  merci- 
ful to  me  as  well  as  to  yourself.  Upon  what  terms  will  you 
give  me  that  paper  and  promise  never  to  speak  of  it  or  of  the 
affair  to  any  one  without  my  consent  ?" 

"  I  will  not  give  you  the  paper  upon  an]/  terms  !"  was  the 
answer.  "  That  has  been  my  shame  and  my  torture  for  five 
years,  and  must  still  accompany  me.  But  I  will  be  your  ac 
complice  in  crime  and  make  the  promise  you  require,  on  three 
conditions  and  those  only.  i^iV.s^,  that  you  drop  all  hypocrisy 
when  speaking  to  me,  whatever  you  may  do  before  the  world. 
Second,  that  you  never  speak  one  disrespectful  word  of  Carl- 
ton Brand,  again,  in  my  hearing.  He  is  dead  to  me  :  let 
your  hatred  of  him  die  with  him,  or  at  least  let  me  hear  no 
word  of  it.  Third,  that  you  urge  no  person  upon  me  as  a 
husband.  Present  me  whom  you  please — throw  me  into  any 
company  you  wish  ;  but  say  not  one  word  to  force  me  into 
marriage  with  Hector  Coles  or  any  other  person.  This  will 
not  break  my  heart — I  know  it.  I  shall  marry  some  time, 
no  doubt,  when  I  find  the  man  who  can  supply  that  place  in 
my  heart  which  has  to-day  been  left  empty, — without  any 
foible  or  weakness  to  make  him  an  unfit  match  for  my  own 
stainless  blood  !" 

There  was  a  bitter  emphasis  upon  the  penultimate  word, 


Til  E       C  O  W  A  K  D.  191 

and  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  distinctly  recognized  it.  She  recog- 
nized, too,  the  somewhat  singular  prophecy  made  by  a  young 
girl  on  the  very  day  of  her  final  parting  with  the  man  she 
had  loved  so  dearly — that  she  would  yet  find  another  to  fill 
her  heart  more  completely.  Most  young  persons  think  very 
differently  at  the  moment  of  the  great  first  sorrow,  believe 
that  the  vacant  niche  can  never  be  filled,  and  make  painful 
promises  of  hopeless  lives  and  celibacy,  to  cancel  those  prom- 
ises some  day  amid  blushes  of  regret  or  peals  of  laughter. 
Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  recognized  the  singularity  then,  and  she 
may  have  had  reason  to  recall  that  prophecy  at  another  day 
in  the  near  future. 

But  there  was  yet  something  that  she  must  do,  to  seal  that 
treaty  of  which  her  daughter  w^as  the  dictator.  Her  own 
compact  was  to  be  made  :  she  made  it. 

"I  will  do  as  you  wish,  Margaret.  They  are  hard  terms 
to  set,  to  your  mother  ;  but  I  accept  them." 

"  Yery  well,  then.  We  understand  each  other,  now  ;  and 
I  hope  there  will  never  be  another  painful  word  between  us. 
I  will  try  to  speak  none,  and  for  both  our  sakes  I  hope  you 
will  be  as  careful.  Now  leave  me,  please.  I  will  draw  to 
this  other  shutter,  for  I  need  darkness,  silence  and  rest — ^yes, 
rest  !" 

The  closed  blind  left  the  room  in  almost  total  dusk.  The 
mother  left  the  room,  stepping  slowly  and  appearing  to  bear 
about  with  her  a  dim  consciousness  that  within  the  past  half- 
hour  her  relative  position  with  her  daughter  had  been  most 
signally  changed.  Margaret  Hayley  threw  herself  once 
more  on  the  sofa,  buried  her  fevered  brow  and  her  dishevelled 
hair  in  the  soft,  cool,  white  pillow,  and  sought  that  wished- 
for  "rest."  Alas  !  no  tvrant  ever  invented  a  torture-bed  so 
full  of  weary  turnings  and  agonized  prayers  for  deliverance 
or  oolivion,  as  the  softest  couch  whereon  young  love,  sud- 
denly and  hopelessly  bereft,  reachctj  out  its  arms  in  vain, 
finds  emptiness,  and  falls  back  despairing — moaning  for  the 
lost  twin  of  its  soul !     The  agony  may  be  all  forgotten  to- 


192  THE      COWARD. 

morrow,  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  intoxication  of  music,  and 
the  voices  of  friends,  and  the  far-off  dawning  of  a  new  pas- 
sion ;  but  oh,  what  is  the  martyrdom  of  to-night. 


The  third  and  last  of  these  supplementary  scenes,  occur- 
ring at  nearly  the  same  period  in  the  afternoon  as  the  second, 
has  its  location  at  the  house  of  Robert  Brand,  and  a  part  of 
it  in  the  same  room  where  we  have  before  seen  the  testy^ 
invalid  while  receiving  the  news  of  his  son's  defection  and 
disgrace. 

Robert  Brand  was  once  more  back  in  his  easy-chair,  his 
injured  limb  again  propped  on  the  pillows,  and  his  face  show- 
ing all  those  contortions  of  extraordinary  pain  likely  to  be 
induced  by  his  imprudent  ride  and  the  agitation  attending  it. 
Satisfied,  now,  that  his  son  was  not  dead,  the  tender  father 
had  again  died  out  in  him  ;  but  made  aware  by  a  succession 
of  facts,  which  he  could  neither  understand  nor  doubt,  that 
that  son,  just  characterized,  even  by  himself,  as  a  hopeless 
coward,  had  since  that  time  been  fighting,  and  fighting  with- 
out any  evidence  of  cowardice,  in  a  species  of  hand-to-hand 
conflict  likely  to  try  the  courage  quite  as  seriously  as  the 
shock  of  any  ordinary  battle, — he  was  mentally  in  a  state  of 
confusion  on  the  young  man's  account,  altogether  unusual 
with  him  and  not  a  little  painful.  He  did  not  curse  any 
more,  or  at  least  no  more  of  his  curses  were  aimed  at  the 
head  of  his  son. 

Poor  little  Elsie  had  been  left  without  a  hope  of  reconcili- 
ation between  her  father  and  her  brother,  after  the  hurling 
of  that  wild  and  wicked  curse  and  the  exile  from  his  home 
which  it  involved.  But  the  episode  of  the  supposed  death 
had  made  a  diversion  in  Carlton's  favor ;  her  father  had 
returned  from  the  search  for  his  son's  body,  worried  and 
unsettled  if  not  mollified ;  and  the  affectionate  soul  thought 
that  the  opportunity  might  be  a  favorable  one  for  securing 
the  reversal  of  the  cruel  sentence,  with  concealment  from  her 
brother  that  any  such  words  had  ever  been  uttered,  and  his 


THE      COWARD.  193 

eventual  return  home  as  if  nothing  painful  or  unpleasant  had 
occurred.  "Blessed  are  the  peace-makers  1"  says  very  high 
authority  ;  and  most  blessed  of  all  are  those  who,  like  little 
Elsie,  ignoring  their  own  suffering  and  ill-treatment,  strive 
to  bring  together  the  divided  members  of  a  once  hapi)y 
household  ! 

But  the  little  girl  was  not  half  aware  how  stubborn  was 
the  material  upon  which  she  was  trying  to  work,  or  how 
deeply  seated  was  the  feeling  of  mortification  which  had 
embittered  the  whole  nature  of  the  man  who  held  cowardice 
to  be  the  most  unpardonable  of  vices. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  girl !"  was  the  severe  reply  to  her 
suggestion  that  there  might  be  some  mistake,  after  all — that 
poor  Carlton  had  enemies,  and  they  had  no  doubt  labored  to 
place  him  in  a  false  position — and  that  he  would  be  sorry,  to 
the  last  day  he  lived,  if  when  Carlton  returned  hom'e,  as  he 
probably  would  do  that  night  if  nothing  serious  had  really 
happened  to  him,  he  should  say  one  word  to  drive  him  away 
again,  to  leave  himself  without  a  son,  and  her  without  a 
brother.  "Hold  your  tongue,  girU  You  are  a  little  fool, 
and  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  about.  If  you  do  not 
wish  to  follow  your  brother,  you  had  best  not  meddle  any 
more  in  the  relations  which  I  choose  to  establish  with  a  son 
who  has  disgraced  himself  and  me  !" 

"But  suppose  poor  Carlton  should  be  dead,  after  all, 
father  ?  Who  knows  but  some  stranger  may  have  come  by 
in  a  wagon,  seen  the  body  lying  on  the  ground,  picked  it  up 
and  carried  it  away  to  the  Coroner's  ?" 

"Eh!  what  is  that  you  say?"  For  the  instant  Ilobert 
Brand  was  startled  by  the  suggestion  and  his  heart  sunk  as 
well  as  softened  at  the  recurring  thought  that  his  son  might 
indeed  be  dead.  But  the  thought  was  just  as  instantaneous^ 
how  general  was  the  objection  to  touching  an  unknown  dead 
body,  and  how  unlikely  that  any  such  course  should  h^ye 
been  adopted  by  strangers,  while  any  acquaintance,  removing 
the  body  at  all,  would  certainly  have  brought  it  home  to  his 
12 


194  THE      COWARD. 

own  house.  No — he  was  alive  ;  and  that  belief  was  once 
more  full  in  the  mind  of  Robert  Brand  as  he  said  : 

"  What  do  I  care  if  he  is  dead  !  I  believe  I  could  forgive 
him  better,  if  I  knew  that  he  was,  and  that  I  should  never 
again  set  eyes  on  the  likeness  of  a  man  with  the  soul  of  a  cat 
or  a  sheep  !  if  he  is  alive,  as  I  believe  he  is,  let  him  never 
come  near  this  house  again  if  he  does  not  wish  to  hear  words 
said  that  he  will  remember  and  curse  the  last  thing  before  he 
dies  !" 

A  sharp  spasm  of  pain  concluded  this  unhallowed  utter- 
ance, and  words  followed  that  have  no  business  on  this  page. 
Elsie  Brand  fired  again,  when  she  found  all  her  pleading  in 
vain,  and  broke  out  with  : 

"  You  are  a  miserable  heartless  old  wretch,  and  I  have  a 
reat  mind  to  go  out  of  this  house,  this  very  moment,  and 
never  come  into  it  again  as  long  as  I  live,  unless  you  send 
for  me  to  come  back  with  my  brother  !" 

"  Go,  and  the  quicker  the  better  I"  writhed  the  miserable 
man,  in  the  midst  of  a  spasm  of  Dain.  "  If  I  hear  one  more 
impertinent  word  out  of  you,  you  ivill  go,  whether  you  wish 
to  go  or  not,  and  you  will  never  come  back  again  unless  you 
come  on  your  knees  !" 

What  might  hare  been  the  next  word  spoken  by  either,  and 

\^'hether  that  next  word  might  not  indeed  have  wrought  the 

separation  of  father  and  daughter,  no  one  can  say.     For  at 

that  moment  came  a  fortunate  interruption,  in  the  sound  of 

irriage  wheels  coming  rapidly  up  the  lane,  and  easily  heard 

trough  the  open  doors — then  the  furious  barking  of  a  dog, 

he  yell  of  a  woman's  voice,  and  a  volley  of  fearful  curses 

»oured  out  from  the  rougher  lips  of  a  man.     Elsie,  alarmed, 

♦ut  perhaps  rather  glad  than  otherwise  to  have  the  threaten- 

^ig  conversation  so  suddenly  ended,  rushed  out  of  the  room, 

'.hrough  the  parlor,  to  the  front  piazza,  where  she  joined  the 

j^eneral  confusion  with  a  scream  of  affright,  hearing  which, 

ihe  invalid,  who  had  before,  more  than  once  that  day,  proved 

jow  superior  the  mind  could  be  to  the  disablements  of  the 


THE      COWARD.  195 

bodv,  hurled  one  more  oath  at  the  people  who  would  not  even 
allow  him  to  saffer  in  quiet,  started  again  from  his  chair, 
strapped  his  heavy  cane  and  stumped  hurriedly  to  the  door, 
writhing  in  agony  and  half  crazed  with  pain  and  vexation. 
There  the  sight  which  had  the  instant  before  met  the  eyes  of 
his  daughter,  met  his  owa,  though  the  effect  pi'oduced  by  it 
upon  himself  ,was  so  very  different  that  instead  of  screaming 
he  dropped  tigainst  the  lintel  of  the  front  door  In  a  loud  ex- 
plosion of  laughter. 

There  was  a  horse  and  buggy  in  the  lane,  very  near  the 
gate — the  horse  unheld,  rearing  and  squealing,  but  making 
no  attempt  to  run  away  as  might  have  been  expected.  Close 
beside  the  vehicle,  a  man  easily  recognizable  as  Dr.  Philip 
Pomeroy,  was  engaged  in  a  hand-to-hand  (or  is  it  hand-to- 
mouth?)  conflict  with  Carlo,  the  big  watch-dog,  using  the 
butt  of  his  whip,  the  lash  of  it,  his  boots,  and  any  other  weapon 
of  offence  in  his  possession,  against  the  determined  assaults 
of  the  powerful  brute  that  really  seemed  disposed  to  make  a 
meal  of  the  man  of  medicine.  The  doctor  fought  well,  in  that 
new  revival  of  the  sports  of  the  Pvoman  arena,  but  he  was 
terribly  bested  (by  which  it  is  only  intended  to  use  an  old 
word  of  the  days  of  chivalry,  and  not  to  make  an  atrocious 
pun  upoil  heast-ed ;)  and  just  at  the  moment  when  Robert 
Brand's  eyes  took  in  all  the  particulars  of  the  scene,  the 
human  combatant,  following  up  a  temporary  advantage,  lunged 
ahead  a  little  too  far,  lost  his  balance  or  caught  his  foot,  and 
went  headlong  on  the  top  of  the  dog,  the  contest  being  there- 
after conducted  on  the  ground  and  in  the  partial  obscurity  of 
the  fence.  At  the  same  instant,  too,  the  tall,  bare-headed 
and  bare-armed  figure  of  old  Elspeth  Graeme  appeared  from 
behind  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  the  voice  of  that  Caledo- 
nian servitor  was  heard  screaming  out: 

"  Here,  Carlo  !  Here,  lad  !  coom  awa,  ye  daft  deevil  ! 
Here  !  here  !  coom  awa,  lad  !" 

Elsie  joined  with  a  feeble  "  Here,  Carlo  I"  from  the  piazza; 
?^nd  Robert  Brand,  if  he  could  have  found  voice,  would  prob- 


196  THE      COWARD. 

ably  have  assisted  in  calling  off  the  dog;  but  Carlo,  a  for- 
midable animal  in  size,  black,  with  a  few  dashes  of  white, 
compounded  of  the  Newfoundland  and  the  Mount  St.  Bernard, 
with  a  surreptitious  cross  of  the  bull-dog  (such  immorality 
has  been  known  even  in  canine  families,  to  the  great  regret 
of  precisian  dog-fanciers) — Carlo  had  no  idea  whatever  of 
"throwing  up  the  sponge,"  (which  with  a  dog  consists,  we 
believe,  in  dropping  his  tail),  and  might  have  fought  on  until 
death,  doomsday,  or  the  loss  of  his  teeth  from  old  age,  arrived 
to  stop  him — had  not  Elspeth  closed  in  with  a  "  Hech  !  ye 
born  deevil !  Ye'U  aye  be  doin'  more  than  ye'r  tauld  !" 
grasped  the  huge  animal  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  dragged 
him  away  very  much  as  if  she  had  been  dealing  with  a  kitten. 

Thus  relieved,  the  doctor  recovered  his  feet ;  but  he  was — 
as  Elspeth  described  him  in  a  communication  made  not  long 
after — "  a  sair  lookin'  chiel  I"  He  had  lost  his  hat,  dusted 
his  coat,  and  found  a  sad  rent  in  one  ]eg  of  his  nether  gar- 
ments, not  to  mention  the  rage  which  flashed  in  his  eye  and 
almost  foamed  from  his  mouth.  For  the  first  moment  after 
the  rescue  he  seemed  to  have  a  fancy  for  "  pitching  into"  old 
Elspeth,  unreasonable  as  such  a  course  would  have  been  after 
her  calling  off  the  dog  and  finalh^  lugging  him  off  by  mam 
force  ;  and  he  did  hurl  after  her  an  appellation  or  two  which 
might  have  furnished  a  rhyme  to  the  name  of  the  Scottish 
national  disease  ;  but  the  stout  serving  woman  quelled  him 
with  this  significant  threat,  and  went  on  her  way,  dragging 
the  dog  towards  his  kennel  in  the  backyard : 

"  'Deed,  if  ye  can't  keep  a  ceevil  tongue  in  yer  heid,  I'll  no 
be  holdin'  the  tyke  awa  from  ye  a  bit  langer,  and  he'll  eat  ye 
up,  I  doubt !" 

At  that  juncture  the  discomfited  doctor  caught  sight  of 
Robert  Brand  and  his  daughter,  in  the  door  and  on  the  piazza, 
and  he  strode  in  to  them  without  further  ado,  whip  still  in 
hand,  rage  still  Jn  his  face,  and  threatening  enough  in  his 
manner  to  indicate  that  he  intended  to  cowhide  so  many  of 
the  familv  as  he  could  find,  male  and  female. 


THE      COWARD.  197 

"  Who  let  out  that  infernal  dog  ?"  was  his  first  salutation, 
without  first  addressing  either  the  old  man  or  his  daughter 
by  name. 

"  lie  must  have  broken  loose,  himself.  Indeed,  Doctor, 
we  are  so  sorry—"  began  little  Elsie,  who  had  really  been 
frightened  out  of  her  wits,  and  who  had  that  organ  unknown 
to  the  phrenologists,  called  Hospitality,  very  largely  devel- 
oped. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  girl,  and  let  me  attend  to  my  own 
business  !"  was  the  surly  interruption  of  the  invalid  father, 
who  had  stopped  laughing,  and  who  had  at  that  juncture  a 
very  low  development  of  the  corresponding  organ.  ''  We  are 
not  sorry  at  all.  Dr.  Pomeroy,  I  told  you  this  morning,  when 
I  ordered  you  out  of  this  house,  never  to  come  near  it  again ; 
and  you  had  better  paid  attention  to  the  order." 

"  Then  you  had  that  dog  set  loose  !" 

"  That  is  a  lie  !"  was  the  response.  The  doctor,  who  had 
used  the  same  expression  in  a  still  more  offensive  form,  not 
long  before,  was  getting  the  chalice  returned  to  his  lips  at 
very  short  notice.  And  the  old  man,  in  denying  the  act,  in- 
tended to  tell  the  exact  truth — he  had  not  turned  the  do"- 
loose,  or  set  him  upon  the  doctor,  except  secondarily.  Some 
hours  before,  when  the  medical  man  had  just  been  dismissed 
for  the  first  time,  he  had  told  the  Scottish  woman  that  'he 
would  bundle  her  out,  neck  and  crop,  if  she  did  not  set  the 
dog  on  that  man  if  he  ever  came  near  the  house  again  !'  and 
she  had  promised  to  obey  his  orders  :  that  was  all  I  Carlo, 
a  dear  friend  of  his  young  master,  had  always  hated  the 
doctor,  who  was  his  enemy,  and  never  passed  without  snap- 
ping and  growling  at  him  ;  and  the  old  woman  well  knew 
the  fact.  Consequently,  when  she  saw  the  buggy  dashing  up 
the  lane,  and  recognized  it,  she  had  religiously  kept  her  promise, 
darted  round  to  the  kennel,  unloosed  the  dog  and  directed  his 
attention  to  the  obnoxious  individual,  with  a  "  Catch  him,  lad- 
die !"  that  sent  him  flying  at  the  doctor's  throat  just  as  he 
stepped  to   the   ground.     And   it  was   only  when  the  old 


198  THE      COWARD. 

woman  believed  the  punishment  going  a  little  too  far  and  the 
victim  likely  to  be  eaten  up  in  very  deed,  that  she  had  inter- 
posed and  dragged  the  enraged  Vjrute  from  his  prey.  All  this 
was  unknown  to  both  father  and  daughter,  who  merely  sup- 
posed that  the  dog  had  broken  loose  at  that  awkward  mo- 
ment ;  and  Robert  Brand's  disclaimer,  though  a  very  un- 
courteous  one,  had  the  merit  of  truth.  But  the  doctor,  just 
then  enraged  beyond  endurance,  literally  "  boiled  overeat 
the  word. 

"  I  lie,  do  I  ?"  he  foamed.  "  If  you  were  not  a  miserable 
cripple,  I  would  horsewhip  you  on  your  own  door-step,  old 
as  you  are  !" 

"Oh,  Doctor  I  oh,  father!"  pleaded  the  frightened  Elsie, 
who  did  not  know  what  might  be  coming  after  this. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  girl !"  again  spoke  Robert  Brand,  who 
still  stood  leaninGT  asrainst  the  lintel  of  the  door.  "Horse- 
whip  me,  would  you,  you  poisoning  Copperhead  !  If  I  could 
not  beat  out  your  brains  with  this  stick,  I  could  set  a  woman 
at  you  who  would  take  you  across  her  knee  and  spank  yea 
till  you  w^ere  flat  like  a  pancake  !" 

Dr.  Pomeroy  thought  of  the  woman  who  had  dragged  oflf 
the  dog,  and  had  some  doubts  whether  she  could  not  indeed 
do  all  that  her  master  promised.  He  seemed  to  have  the 
luck,  that  day,  to  fall  into  the  way  of  people  sturdy  of  arm 
and  strong  of  w\\\ ! 

"  What  do  you  ivani  here  ?"  was  the  inquiry  of  the  old 
man,  before  the  doctor  could  answer  again,  and  remembering 
that  there  might  be  some  special  errand  upon  which  he  had  a 
right  to  come. 

"You  have  remembered  it,  have  you  ?"  w^as  the  response. 
"  Well,  then,  I  want  your  thief  of  a  son  !  Is  he  in  this 
house  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  coward  this  morning  :  now  he  is  a  thief,  is 
he  ?     What  do  you  want  of  him  ?" 

"  He  committed  theft  at  my  house  not  more  than  an  hour 


THK      COWAKD.  1^9 

ago  ;  and  I  am  going  to  find  him  if  he  is  in  the  State.  Oucq 
more— is  he  here  ?" 

"  What  did  he  steal  ?"  asked  the  father  with  a  sneer,  wliila 
poor  Elsie  stood  nearly  fainting  and  yet  unable  to  move  from 
the  spot,  at  that  new  charge  against  her  brother. 

"A  woman."     Elsie  felt  relieved;   the  old  man  sneered. 

"Well,  I  can  only  say  that  if  he  took  awny  any  woman 
belonging  to  you,  he  must  have  a  singular  taste  !" 

"Robert  Brand" — and  the  doctor  spoke  in  a  tone  of  low 
and  c^^icntrated  passion — "once  more  and  for  the  last  time 
I  ask  you  whether  your  son  is  in  this  house,  with  Eleanor 
Hill,  my — my  adopted  daughter,  in  his  company." 

"  Eleanor  Hill !"  gasped  Elsie,  but  no  one  heard  her. 

"  Dr.  Pomeroy,"  answered  Robert  Brand,  "  you  do  not 
deserve  any  answer  except  a  blow,  but  I  will  give  you  one. 
My  son,  as  you  call  him,  Carlton  Brand,  is  not  here,  and  will 
never  be  here  again  while  I  live,  unless  to  be  thrust  out  like  a 
dog.  How  many  girls  he  has,  or  w^here  he  conceals  them,  is 
none  of  my  business,  or  yours/  Now  go,  if  you  know  when 
you  are  well  oflF,  for  as  sure  as  God  lets  me  live,  if  I  ever  see 
you  approaching  this  house  again,  I  will  shoot  you  from  the 
window  Avith  my  own  hand." 

Something  in  the  tone  told  Dr.  Pomeroy  that  both  the  as- 
sertion and  the  threat  were  true.  He  turned  without  another 
word,  stepped  to  his  buggy,  mounted  into  it  and  drove  away. 

"  He  is  alive,  father — thank  God  !"  said  Elsie  Brand,  rev- 
erently, when  the  unwelconie  visitor  had  disappeared  and 
she  was  assisting  the  invalid  back  to  his  chair  of  suffering. 
That  one  assurance  bad  been  running  through  her  little  head, 
putting  out  all  other  thoughts,  since  the  remark  of  the  doctoi 
that  Carlton  had  been  at  his  house  not  an  hour  before. 

"  He  is  as  dead  to  me  as  if  he  had  been  buried  ten  years  !" 
was  the  reply  of  the  implacable  father,  who  stood  in  momen- 
tary peril  of  the  grave  from  some  sudden  turn  of  his  disease, 
and  yet  who  had  not  even  taken  that  first  step  towards  prepara- 
tion for  the  Judgment,  compiised  in  pity  and  forgiveness  I 


200  THE      COWARD. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Before   axd   after  Gettysburoii — The  Apathy  and  De- 
spair    WHICH     PRECEDED,     AND     THE     JUBILATIOX      WHICH 

FOLLOWED — What  Kitty  Hood  said  after  the  Battle, 
AND  what  Robert  Brand — Brother  and  Sister — A 
GiiEST  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel — A  fire-room 
Visit,  an  Interviet7,  and  a  Departure  for  Europe. 

It  whs  a  dark  day  for  the  nation — perhaps  none  darker  ! — 
that  day  of  late  June,  1863,  marked  by  the  occurrence  of  tha 
preceding  events.  Private  interests,  private  wrongs,  private 
sorrows  seemed  all  to  be  culminating  or  laying  down  fearful 
material  for  culmination  in  the  future  ;  but  those  domestic 
convulsions  were  only  a  faint  and  feeble  type  of  that  great 
throe  agitating  the  whole  nation.  That  day  the  bravest 
feared,  not  for  themselves  but  for  the  country  they  loved  ; 
and  that  day  the  miserable  trucklers  who  would  long  before 
have  had  the  republic  veil  its  face  and  sink  on  its  knees  before 
the  arrogance  of  rebellion,  begging  for  "peace''  with  dishonor, 
instead  of  demanding  and  enforcing  victory, — that  day  they 
experienced  such  a  triumph  as  they  had  never  before  known 
and  such  as  their  narrow  souls  could  scarcely  appreciate. 
"We  told  you  so  I"  rung  out  from  the  throat  of  every  "con- 
ditional loyalist,"  as  the  same  paltry  exultation  had  rung 
many  an  age  before  against  the  unsubmitting  tribunes  by  the 
mad  populace  when  the  Tohcians  threatened  to  devastate 
Rome — as  it  had  been  yelled  into  the  ears  of  Philip  Yan  Ar- 
tevelde  and  his  brother  defenders,  when  Ypres  and  Bruges 
fell,  and  the  fierce  Earl  of  Flanders  promised  death  to  the 
burghers  of  Ghent ;  and  there  was  little,  except  bald  defiance, 
that  loyal  men  could  reply.  That  long-boasted  "invasion  of 
the  North"  had  come  at  last ;  and  tbfsre  is  always  a  disheart- 
ening effect  in  the  drawing  of  war  nearer  to  the  doors  it  has 
heretofore  spared,  even  as  there  is  always  a  scum  among  any 


THE      CO  W  A  R  D.  201 

population,  ready  to  cry  "ruin  !"  and  counsel  "submission" 
or  "compromise"  when  a  single  move  in  the  great  game  of 
war  has  ended  disastrous!}'. 

A  more  dreary  spectacle  than  Philadelphia  presented 
daring  some  of  the  days  of  that  week,  cannot  very  well  be 
imagined.  From  Ilarrisburgh  and  many  of  the  minor  towns 
of  the  west  and  southwest  of  the  State,  the  inhabitants  bad 
fled  by  thousands  to  other  places  supposed  to  be  less  -easily 
within  reach  of  the  enemy;  and,  if  in  a  future  day  of  peace, 
those  who  at  this  juncture  took  part  with  the  rebellion  should 
chance  to  be  shamed  with  a  reminder  of  the  panic  in  Rich- 
mond, and  the  removal  of  the  Confederate  archives,  after 
Hanover  Court-House  in  1862,  they  may  very  pleasantly  re- 
taliate by  calling  up  the  panic  at  Harrisburgh  and  the  packing 
up  of'the  Pennsylvania  State  records,  after  York  and  Carlisle 
in  1803.  Hundreds  of  wealthy  persons  removed  their  valua- 
bles even  to  Philadelphia;  and  there  is  no  guarantee  what- 
ever that  many  of  them  did  not  make  a  still  further  removal 
East,  when  they  could  do  so  without  attracting  disagreeable 
attention  and  running  the  chance  of  after  ridicule. 

There  seemed  to  be  an  impression  just  then,  in  fact,  that 
there  was  no  power  whatever  to  check  the  disciplined  but 
half-starved  and  desperate  rebel  hordes.  Even  those  who 
did  not  view  the  affair  as  any  matter  of  gloom  or  discourage- 
ment, still  believed  it  one  of  heavy  loss  that  must  be  submitted 
to  with  the  best  grace  possible. 

One  of  the  young  Philadelphia  merchants  was  recognized 
by  a  friend,  on  one  of  the  very  last  days  of  June,  knocking 
about  the  balls  in  the  billiard-room  of  the  Cattskill  Mountain 
House,  £lnd  questioned  by  him  as  to  the  propriety  of  his 
being  away  from  the  Quaker  City  at  a  time  when  so  heavy  a 
misfortune  as  the  rebel  advance  to  the  Delaware  seemed  to 
be  impending. 

"Oh,"  said  the  raeroJiant,  making  an  eight-shot  at  the 
same  moment,  "I  do  not  see  any  good  that  I  could  do  by 
etaying." 


202  THE      COWARD. 

*'And  do  you  not  believe  that  the  rebels  will  reach  Phila- 
delphia ?"  asked  the  friend. 

"  Well,  yes,  I  rather  think  they  will,''  answered  the  noncha- 
lant.  "I  should  not  be  surprised  if  they  should  reach  tliert 
to-morrow.  In  fact  I  telegraphed  to  my  partner  from 
Albany,  yesterday,  whenever  they  had  taken  Harrisburgh 
to  pack  up  the  most  valuable  of  our  goods  and  send  them  to 
New  York." 

"And  when  they  have  taken  Xew  York  ?"  asked  the  inter- 
rogator, not  a  little  amused  at  that  new  system  of  defending 
valuable  property  and  the  country. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  merchant,  as  be  sighted  another  shot  and 
made  his  carom  without  the  tremor  of  a  pulse — "  when  they 
take  Xew  York,  as  I  suppose  they  will  in  a  week  or  two,  we 
shall  move  them  to  Boston,  and  so  keep  on  working  East  till 
they  drive  us  into  Canada  or  the  Atlantic." 

And  this  was  not  all.a  jest,  by  any  means.  The  player  had 
so  telegraphed,  and  he  more  than  half  believed  that  his  goods 
were  at  that  time  in  course  of  removal,  while  he  had  no 
thought  whatever  of  deserting  his  billiard-table  and  going 
down  to  assist  in  defendiug  them.  He  was  not  alone,  mean- 
while, in  his  reprehensible  coolness,  as  history  will  be  at 
some  pains  to  record  of  that  extraordinary  crisis. 

Philadelphia  presented  many  strange  spectacles  on  those 
days.  Apart  from  the  blowing  of  a  brass  band  on  every 
corner,  the  patrolling  of  every  sidewalk  by  a  recruiting  officer 
with  fife  and  drum,  and  the  requisite  number  of  human 
"stool-pigeons,"  and  the  exhibition  of  the  placard  before 
noted,  offering  every  inducement  in  money  and  every  plea  of 
patriotism  for  "  State  defence," — there  were  other  and  yet 
more  marked  indications  of  a  period  out  of  the  common  order 
even  for  war-time.  The  American  and  the  Merchants', 
favorite  resorts  of  mercantile  buyers  from  the  rural  countie? 
of  the  State,  were  full  of  guests,  but  they  lounged  in  the 
reading  and  smoking-rooms,  and  had  no  thought  of  com- 
mercial transactions.     Gold  was  going  up,  its   higher  rate 


THE      CO  W  A  R  D .  203 

marking  increased  fever  in  the  pulse  of  the  national  patient; 
and  yet  business  was  almost  as  stagnant  in  the  broker's 
offices  of  Third  Street  as  were  wholesale  transactions  in  the 
heavy  houses  on  Walnut  and  Chestnut  and  Market  below 
Second.  The  old  Tonawanda  and  the  still  older  Saranac, 
lyin^r  idle  at  the  foot  of  Walnut  Street,  their  yards  lank  and 
bare  as  winter  trees,  and  the  ships  waiting  for  freight  that 
seemed  to  be  long  in  coming,  found  a  new  use  in  illustrating 
the  hopeless  stagnation  of  the  city.  The  theatres  had  nearly 
all  closed  before,  and.  the  last  hurried  its  unprofitable  season 
to  an  end.  The  red  bricks  of  old  Independence  Hall  seemed 
more  dingy  than  ever  ;  and  those  who  glnnced  into  the  hall 
where  the  gre^t  Dt'claration  was  signed  in  Seventy-six,  at  tho 
cracke  1  bell  and  the  other  sad  reminders  of  a  past  age  and  a 
by-gone  patriotism,  thought  whether  new  masters  would  not 
claim  t]iose  relics  for  their  own,  before  many  days,  issuing  a 
new  manifesto  of  slavery  from  that  second  Cradle  of  Liberty, 
while  their  gaunt  steeds  were  picketed  in  Independence 
Square.  Men  saw  the  sleepless  eye  of  the  clock  look  down 
from  the  old  steeple,  at  night,  with  a  helpless  prayer,  as  if 
something  of  protection  which  had  before  lived  in  the  sacred 
building  was  to  be  found  no  more  ;  and  the  bell  woke  many 
a  sleeper  at  midnight,  with  its  slow  and  melancholy  stroke, 
to  a  feeling  of  loss  and  sorrow  like  that  which  it  might  have 
evoked  when  sounding  for  the  burial  of  dear  friends.  All 
day  long  crowds  gathered  and  held  their  place,  wearily 
moving  to  and  fro,  but  never  dispersing,  in  the  open  space 
in  front  of  the  historic  pile  ;  and  "  peace"  orators,  who  had 
before  been  awed  into  silence  by  the  threats  and  demonstra- 
tions of  earlier  days,  once  more  ventured  treasonable  har- 
angues to  sections  of  those  crowds,  while  the  policemen  scarcely 
found  energy  enough  to  disperse  the  hearers  or  arrest  the 
disturbers.  The  bulletin  boards  were  besieged  ;  the  news- 
paper ofiices  had  a  demand  for  extras  unknown  to  the  oldest 
inhabitant  of  the  quiet  city  ;  and  the  telegraph  offices,  busied 
alike  with  messages  of  public  and  private  interest,  had  never 


20JI  THE      COWARD. 

before  known  such  a  test  of  their  capacity  since  Morse  first 
set  Prometheus  at  his  new  occupation  of  a  messenger.  A 
few  troops  marched  away,  the  Reserves  (with  Dick  Compton 
in  their  ranks)  among  the  number ;  and  the  New  York 
militia  regiments  and  some  of  the  New  Jersey  troops  passed 
through  on  their  third  campaign  for  "  home  defence  ;''  but  the 
public  mind  was  not  reassured.  Once  there  was  a  rumor 
that  McClellan  had  been  called  again  to  the  command  of  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  or  at  least  entrusted  with  the  defence 
of  the  State,  and  then  the  general  pulse  for  the  moment  beat 
wildly  ;  hut  the  inspiriting  report  died  away  again,  the  non- 
arrival  of  the  morning  train  from  Harrisburgh  one  day 
threw  the  whole  city  into  panic,  and  the  thought  of  successfully 
defending  the  State  capital  sunk  lower  than  ev^er.  The 
President,  who  had  been  bespoken  to  meet  the  Loyal  Leagues 
and  raise  a  new  flag  on  Independence  Hall  on  the  Fourth  of 
July,  was  too  busy  or  too  much  discouraged,  and  would  not 
come ;  and  what  heart  lacked  an  excuse  for  sinking  down 
when  so  much  was  threatened  and  so  little  spirit  shown  for 
meeting  the  great  peril  ? 

This  was  the  week  preceding  the  Fourth  ;  and  in  that  week, 
which  closed  with  the  National  Anniversary,  what  changes 
had  taken  place !  The  time  and  its  vicissitudes  seemed 
to  be  an  exact  offset  to  the  hopes  and  the  disappointments 
of  the  same  period  of  1862.  Then,  the  Army  of  the  Potomac 
had  lain  before  Richmond,  and  the  Fourth  was  to  have  seen 
the  old  flag  waving  in  the  rebel  capital.  It  had  really  seen 
the  little  General  driven  back  upon  the  James,  and  repulsed 
if  not  hopelessly  defeated.  The  Fourth  of  1863  was  to  see 
Harrisburgh  in  the  hands  of  the  rebels,  and  the  national  cause 
sunken  lower  than  it  had  before  been  since  the  advent  of  the 
secession.  What  did  it  really  see  ?  Thank  God  for  a  few 
such  hours  as  those  of  the  close  of  the  Fourth,  in  the  midst 
of  whole  centuries  of  loss  and  disappointment !  All  was 
changed — all  w^as  saved  !  Meade,  a  man  of  whom  but  few 
knew  any  thing  more,  a  week  earlier,  than  that  he  worS  a 


THE      COWARD.  205 

brave  man,   a  good   fighting  General,  and  a  brother  of  the 
overslaughed  Captain  Dick  Meado,  of  the  North  Carolina— 
Meade  had  arisen  in  doubt  and  culminated  in  glory.    Bloodiest 
and    most   important  of  all   the    battles    of  the    Continent, 
Getty sburgh  stood  -already  upon  the  pages  of  the   National 
history,  soaked  with  the  blood  of  the  bravest— holy  with  the 
bravery  and  the  energy  which  had  there  broken  and  rolled 
back  the  tide  of  invasion,  and  yet  to  be  holier  still  as  the 
Cemetery  of  the  Battle-Dead  of  the  Republic.     Orators  who 
began  their  Fourth  of  July  addresses  with  only  their  pulses 
of  anxiety  stirred  by  the  knowledge  that  there  had  been  three 
days  fighting,  that  Reynolds  was  killed,  and  that  the  conflict 
seemed  to  have  been  desperate  and  undecided,  did  not  close 
them  before  they  knew  that  the  great  victory  was  won,  that 
Meade  was  to  be  thenceforth  a  name  of  honor  in  the  lan^, 
that  Lee  and  his  hordes  were  in  disastrous  retreat,  and  that 
the  "invasion  of  the  North"  was  at  an  end  for  all  the  time 
covered  by  this  struggle.     The  news  of  -Yicksburg  was  soon 
to  come,  another  crowning  glory  for  the  Fourth,  though  not 
known  for  days   after,  and   Grant  w^as  to  be  a  third   time 
canonized.     But  just  then  there  was  enough  without  Ylcks- 
burg,  and  the  nation  might  have  gone  mad  over  the  double 
tidings  had  they  come  at  once. 

Who,  that  has  one  drop  of  patriotic  blood  surging  in  his 
heart,  can  ever  forget  the  reading  of  those  "  victory  extras" 
that  flew  wnde  over  the  land  on  Saturday  night  and  Sunday 
morning— the  quavering  voices  of  the  readers,  the  reddening 
cheeks  and  flashing  eyes  of  the  hearers  ?  Never  before  did 
so  much  seem  to  have  been  won,  because  never  before  did  so 
much  seem  to  have  been  perilled.  And  Philadelphia,  that 
had  sunken  lowest  in  despondency  of  any  of  the  great  cities, 
naturally  rose  highest  when  the  word  of  victory  came.  Bells 
rung,  flags  waved,  music  sounded,  gas  blazed  like  the  noonday, 
processions  paraded,  business  revived  as  if  Trade  had  a  human 
form  and  a  crushing  weight  had  suddenly  been  lifted  from  its 
breast,  and  old  Independence  Hall  once  more  boomed  its  bell 


206  THE      CO^VARD. 

and  flashed  over  the  city  its  midnight  eye  of  fire,  as  if  its 
defiance  to  tyranny  and  treason  had  never  faltered  for  a 
moment. 

It  was  of  Gettysburgh  that  Kitty  Hood  had  been  reading, 
at  her  little  cottage  home  near  the  great  road,  after  ner  return 
from  church  on  Sunday  the  fifth  of  July,  when  she  dashed 
aw^ay  the  tears  of  agitation  and  anxiety  that  had  been  gather- 
ing in  her  eyes,  and  said  : 

"  Dick  Compton  was  right,  after  all,  and  I  was  a  fool  to  try 
to  keep  him  awa}'- !  If  he  had  obeyed  me,  I  should  have 
despised  him  now ;  and  if  he  has  not  been  killed  in  that  terri- 
ble battle  and  lives  to  come  home  again,  I  will  tell  him  how 
wrong  I  was,  and  what  a  ninny  I  made  of  iny^^-If,  and  how 
Sony  I  am  for  every  word  I  spoke  that  day,  and  hovv  much 
better  I  love  him  because  he  obeyed  the  call  of  his  country 
instead  of  the  poor,  weak,  miserable  voice  of  a  frightened 
woman  !" 

And  it  was  of  Gettysburgh  and  the  desperate  fighting 
around  Cemetery  Hill  that  Robert  Brand  had  been  reading, 
on  the  same  Sunday  afternoon,  sitting  in  the  shade  of  his  own 
piazza,  when  he  hurled  out  these  bitter  words,  which  poor 
little  Elsie  heard  as  she  lay  upon  the  lounge  in  the  parlor 
within :  , 

"  This  is  what  he  has  lost,  the  low-lived,  contemptible  pol- 
troon !  My  son,  and  to  shirk  a  great  battle  !  He  might 
have  been  dead  now,  and  in  a  grave  better  than  any  house  in 
W'hich  he  can  ever  hide  his  miserable  life  ;  or  he  might  have 
had  something  to  remember  and  boast  of  all  his  days — that 
he  was  one  of  the  Men  of  Gettysburgh  !  If  I  had  two  legs, 
1  would  go  out  and  find  him  yet  and  shoot  him  with  my  own 
hand — the  infernal  cowardl}^  cur!" 

And  then  the  disgraced  and  irate  father  tried  to  forget  his 
son  and  to  bury  himself  in  other  details  of  the  great  battle. 

The  sister  did  not  reply  aloud  to  her  father's  renewed 
objurgation.     3he  merely  sobbed  a  little  and  took  from  her 


THE      COWARD.  207 

bosom  a  crumpled  note  and  read  it  over  again  for  perhaps  the 
fiftieth  time,  muttering  low  as  she  did  so  : 

"  Oh,  father,  father  !  If  you  knew  how  far  you  would 
need  to  go  to  seek  poor  Carlton  and  make  him  even  more 
miserable  than  he  is,  and  how  little  chance  you  have  of  ever 
seeing  him  again  while  you  live — perhaps  you  would  not 
speak  so  cruelly  of  him."  Then  she  kissed  the  crumpled  note 
again  and  put  it  back  into  her  bosom,  and  tried  to  compose 
herself  once  more  to  that  sleep  which  the  tropical  heat  invited 
and  her  aching  heart  forbade. 

From  the  tone  of  that  letter,  it  would  seem  that  Elsie  had 
written  to  her  brother,  to  his  place  of  business  in  the  city, 
when  fully  aware  x)f  the  unreasonable  indignation  which 
moved  her  father,  advising  him  not  to  risk  serious  personal 
insult  by  coming  home  until  he  should  again  hear  from  her, — 
and  that  he  had  replied,  from  a  place  much  farther  away, 
informing  her  of  his  intention  to  put  seas  between  himself  and 
the  eyes  of  all  who  had  looked  upon  his  disgrace.  But  better 
even  this  long  separation — thought  the  young  girl — than  a 
return  which  would  induce  words  between  father  and  son, 
never  to  be  forgiven  or  forgotten  while  either  held  life  and 
memory.  Years  might  mellow  the  recollection  and  change 
the  feeling — years  when  the  country  should  no  longer  make 
demands  upon  her  children  to  breast  the  battle  storm  in  her 
behalf,  and  when  the  eloquent  voice  in  the  halls  of  justice  and 
the  active,  busy  life  in  deeds  securing  the  common  welfare, 
might  be  sufficient  to  win  new  honor  and  blot  away  any 
recollection  of  that  single  sad  misstep  in  the  career  of  man- 
hood. Poor,  gentle,  loving,  faithful  little  Elsie  Brand  ! — it 
may  be  long  before  we  have  occasion  to  look  upon  her  again, 
and  indeed  she  becomes  henceforth  but  a  comparative  shadow ; 
80  let  it  be  put  upon  record  here  that  she  seemed  "  faithful 
among  the  faithless"  in  practising  the  great  lessons  of  hope 
and  charity.  The  father  might  utter  curses  to  be  set  down 
against  his  own  soul  in  the  day  when  human  words  as  well 
as  human  actions  must  be  called  into  judgment;  friends  mi^jht 


20S  THE      COWARD. 

look  askance  and  enemies  gloat  over  the  disgrace  of  one  who 
had  before  stood  high  above  thera  in  all  the  details  of  honor- 
able character ;  even  the  sweetheart,  whose  pulses  had  once 
beaten  so  close  to  his  that  the  twin  currents  seemed  flowing 
into  one — even  she  might  find  some  poor  excuse  of  pride  to 
falsify  her  by-gone  boast  that  she  loved  him  better  than  all 
the  world,  and  let  that  hollow,  w^ordy  "honor"  work  their 
eternal  separation  :  all  this  might  be,  but  the  sinter  had  no 
such  license  to  waver  in  the  course  of  her  affection  towards 
one  who  had  been  fondled  by  the  same  hands  in  babyhood 
and  drawn  sustenance  from  the  same  maternal  bosom  as  her- 
self. And  no  treason,  all  this,  to  the  truths  and,  the  eternities 
of  other  loves.  All  other  relations  may  sooner  change  than 
that  which  binds  sister  and  brother,  whose  fondness  has  not 
been  tainted  by  some  falsehood  in  blood  -or  chilled  by  some 
wrong  in  education.  Wife  or  mistress,  yesterday  cold,  may 
be  to-day  throbbing  with  the  most  intense  warmth  of  absorb- 
ing passion,  and  to-morrow  chilled  again  by  instability  in 
herself  or  unworthiness  in  the  object  of  her  regard  :  even  the 
mother,  that  tendcrest  friend  of  song  and  story  and  sometimes 
of  real  life,  may  scatter  her  affections  wide  among  so  many 
children  that  each  has  but  the  pauper's  share,  or  form  new 
ties  and  forget  that  ever  the  old  existed.  But  the  brother,  if 
he  be  not  the  veriest  libel  upon  that  sacred  name,  clings  with 
undying  fondness  to  the  sister:  and  the  sister,  ever  faithful, 
clings  to  the  brother  "through  evil  and  through  good  report," 
when  one  or  even  both  may  have  become  a  scoff  and  a  bye- 
word  in  every  mouth  that  opens  to  speak  their  names. 
Happy  those  men  for  whom  the  bond  has  never  been  either 
frayed  or  broken  :  sad  for  those  who  ever  look  back  through 
the  long  years  and  see  some  sunny  head  of  childhood  hiding 
itself  beneath  the  falling  clods  of  the  church-yard,  that  might 
have  nestled  closer  to  them  in  after  years  than  all  whom  they 
have  grasped,  and  cherished,  and  chilled,  and  lost ! 

It  now  becomes  necessary  to  inciuire  the  whereabouts  of 
Carlton  Brand,  the  subject  of  so  much  sisterly  love  and  so 


T  H  E      C  O  W  A  R  D.  1:09 

much  fatherly  indigiiatiou,  at  that  second  period  when  Get- 
tysburgh  was  a  glorious  novelty,  its  bloody  splendors  Hashing 
broad  over  the  loyal  States.  And  those  whereabouts  may 
very  readily  be  discovered.  On  the  register  of  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel,  in  the  city  of  Now  York,  his  name  had  been 
inscribed  on  the  Wednesday  evening  previous  to  Gettysburgh 
(the  first  day  of  July)  ;  and  those  among  cur  readers  who 
may  have  chanced  to  be  sojourners  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  during 
that  week,  and  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  read  over  again 
the  close  and  accurate  description  given  of  the  lawyer  on  his 
first  appearance  in  the  presence  of  his  sister  and  Margaret 
Ilayley,  in  the  second  chapter  of  this  narration,  may  not  find 
much  difficulty  in  remembering  the  appearance  of  so  marked 
a  man  at  the  hotel  ^t  that  period — the  glances  of  admiration 
cast  upon  his  handsome  face  and  manly  figure  as  he  sat  at 
table  or  moved  quietly  among  the  ever-changing  crowd  in  the 
reading-room  or  down  the  long  halls — the  almost  total  silence 
which  he  maintained,  seeming  to  have  no  acquaintances  or  to 
be  anxious  for  escape  from  all  conven-ation — his  inquiring 
more  than  once  every  day  at  the  office  for  letters  which  con- 
tinually disappointed  him— and  the  expression  of  drooping- 
eyed  melancholy  in  face  and  restless  unquiet  in  movement, 
which  gave  rise  to  many  side  remarks  and  led  to  many  sin- 
gular speculations. 

He  was  alone — at  least  alone  at  the  hotel ;  and  Dr.  Pomeroy, 
if  he  had  entertained  any  actual  belief  in  his  suggested  elope- 
ment between  the  lawyer  and  his  "  ward,"  might  easily  have 
satisfied  himself,  had  he  followed  him  to  the  commercial  me- 
tropolis, that  no  such  elopement  had  taken  place  or  that  the 
abductor  had  hidden  his  paramour  carefully  away  and  man- 
aged to  keep  continually  out  of  her  presence. 

Something  indescribably  dim  and  shadowy  grows  about  the 
character  and  action  of  Carlton  Brand  at  this  time  ;  and  the 
writer,  without  any  wish  or  will  to  do  so,  yields  to  the  neces- 
sity, very  much  as  the  proud  man  of  the  world  yields  to  the 
pressure  when  events  which  he  has  assumed  to  direct  grow 
13 


210  THE      COWARD. 

too  mighty  for  his  liand  and  bear  him  au^aj  in  their  rush  and 
tumult, — or  as  a  father — to  use  a  yet  stronger  and  more  pain- 
ful image — submits  with  a  groan  and  a  prayer  when  the  child 
of  his  dear  luve  shuts  the  heart  again.st  him  and  breaks  away 
from  that  tender  control  which  it  has  been  alike  his  duty  and 
liis  pleasure  to  supply.  Some  of  our  n  ental  children,  espe- 
cially when  they  are  so  real  that  time,  ph  ce  and  circumstance 
cannot  be  made  for  them  at  will,  are  s  idly  unmanageable  ; 
and  this  instance  furnishes  an  illustration  which  will  be  better 
nuderstood  at  a  later  period.  Acts  n  ly  yet  be  recorded,, 
while  yet  acts  remain  to  record  ;  but  the  heart  closes,  motives 
become  buried  in  obscurity,  and  the  nirrator  grows  to  be 
little  more  than  a  mere  insignificant,  povv'erless  chroniclrr  of 
events  without  connection  and  actions  Without  expl'iuation. 

Taking  up  his  quarters  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  on 
Wednesday,  this  man,  on  Friday,  the  third  of  July,  while  the 
city  was  in  agonized  anxiety  over  the  conflicting  accounts  of 
Meade's  first  battle  of  the  day  before,  and  while  the  black 
frames  for  the  Fourth  of  July  fireworks  were  being  erected 
in  front  of  the  City  Hall  in  the  Park,  with  some  uncertainty 
in  the  minds  of  the  workmen  whether  they  would  not  be  used 
for  a  pyrotechnic  display  over  the  death-throe  of  the  nation, — 
this  man,  Carlton  Brand,  took  one  of  the  omnibuses  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  line  passing  the  door  of  his  hotel,  alighted  at 
the  corner  of  Fulton  Street  and  Broadway,  walked  down 
to  the  Bowling  Green  and  entered  the  office  of  the  Cunard 
Steamships  fronting  that  faded  relic  of  the  Colonial  splendors 
of  New  York.  When  he  emerged  from  the  office,  fifteen 
minutes  later,  the  cash-box  of  the  British  and  North  Ameri- 
can Royal  Mail  Steamship  Company  was  the  richer  by  many 
broad  pieces  of  American  gold,  and  Carlton  Brand  bore,  folded 
avv'ay  in  his  wallet,  one  of  those  costly  little  pearl-white  wings 
on  W'hich  the  birds  of  passage  bear  themselves  over  the  At- 
lantic. It  was  evident  that  he  was  about  to  desert  his 
countrv — that  country  for  which   he  had  before  refused  to 


THE      COWARD.  211 

figlit, — to  dosert  it  at  the  very  moment  when  its  fate  before 
God  and  the  world  seemed  to  bang  trembling  in  the  balance. 

Coming  out  from  the  office  of  the  Steamship  Company,  ap- 
parently wooed  by  the  breeze  from  the  North  River,  the 
lawyer  bent  his  steps  in  that  direction  as  if  intending  to  make 
the  tour  of  the  shipping  at  the  piers  and  resume  his  convey- 
ance at  some  point  higher  up  the  town.  Past  two  or  three  of 
the  piers  ;  and  the  dense  black  smoke  pouring  out  from  the  fun- 
nels of  one  of  the  transport  steamers  on  the  eve  of  departure 
for  the  South  with  troops  and  munitions,  seemed  to  attract 
his  attention.  He  walked  down  the  dock  and  observed  more 
closely  the  movements  on  and  around  the  vessel.  The  black 
smoke  still  rolled  out,  and  steam  was  hissing  from  the  escape- 
valves.  Heavy  wagons  were  discharging  boxes  at  the  gang- 
way, and  with  much  puffing  and  clatter  a  donkey-engine  was 
hoisting  them  on  board.  A  marine  stood  at  the  plank,  bayo- 
netted  musket  on  shoulder,  and  close  behind  him  an  officer. 
To  the  civil  inquiry  of  the  lawyer,  how  long  before  the 
steamer  would  sail,  the  sentry  replied  that  she  was  then 
steaming-up  and  would  probably  leave  within  a  few  hours ; 
and  to  a  request  to  be  allowed  to  come  on  board  and  see  the 
arranjrements  of  a  government  transport  on  the  eve  of  sailing, 
the  officer,  after  a  moment's  glance  at  the  unimpeachable  dress 
and  appearance  of  the  visitor,  assented  with  the  stately  bow 
of  his  profession. 

It  certainly  seemed  strange  that  on  that  blazing  day,  when 
his  errand  at  the  Hudson  side  of  the  city  had  been  to  inhale 
the  cool  breeze  from  the  river,  Carlton  Brand,  within  a  mo- 
ment after  stepping  on  board  the  transport,  should  have 
ignored  all  the  details  of  decks,  spars,  cabins,  and  even  ma- 
chinery, and  descended  the  narrow  stairways,  little  more  than 
ladders,  leading  down  to  those  flaming  intestines  of  the  sliip 
from  which  the  hot  air  crept  up  through  the  companion-ways 
like  breaths  from  some  roasting  and  agonized  monster.  Yet 
so  it  was  ;  and  regardless  alike  of  the  heat  which  fevered  his 
Jips  and  the  greasy  rails  upon  which  he  soiled  his  gloves  and 


218  THE      C  0  ^^'  A  li  d; 

risked  the  smirching  of  his  spotless  summer  garments,  the 
lawyer  pressed  down  to  the  fire-room,  whore  the  stokers  were 
sweating  great  drops  of  perspiration  tljat  rolled  down  like 
beads  from  their  broiled  foreheads — where  the  coal  was 
rattling  and  crashing  as  it  was  thrown  forward,  then  crackling 
and  hissing  at  its  first  contact  with  the  flame,  as  it  was  dashed 
into  the  midst  of  the  sweltering  furnaces.  Down,  until  he 
stood  before  those  mighty  furnaces  and  caught  blinding 
glimpses,  as  the  firemen  momentarily  opened  the  doors  to 
dash  in  still  other  tons  of  the  crackling  coal  of  what  seemed 
little  less  than  a  ship's-cargo  of  the  fuel,  seething,  raging  and 
lowirg  in  such  a  heat  that  it  made  the  old  fancy  of  the  lower 
pit  no  longer  a  dream   but  a  horrible  present  reality. 

"Terrible  work  for  hpt  weather,  I  should  think,"  said  the 
lawyer,  when  the  shovels  were  still  for  a  moment  and  the 
great  fires  raged,  roared  and  crackled  within.  He  seemed  to 
feel  the  necessity  of  saying  something  to  do  away  w^^h  the 
impression  of  his  being  a  sulky  intruder, — and  was  addressing 
one  of  the  bronzed  old  stokers  who  had  paused  to  wipe  from 
his  grimy  brovv^  the  sweat  that  was  actually  pouring  into  his 
eyes  and  blinding  him. 

"  Yes,  hot  enough  while  we  are  lying  at  the  dock,"  an- 
sw   red  the  stoker. 

"  Why  hotxer  now  than  at  any  other  time  ?"  asked  the 
lawyer,  who  had  probably  never  happened  to  study  that  pe- 
culiar philosophy,  simply  because  he  had  never  been  thrown 
into  contact  with  it. 

"  Why  ?  oh,  Lord  bless  you  ! — because  we  are  lying  still, 
now,  and  there  is  no  draught.  When  we  are  going  through 
the  water,  and  of  course  through  the  air,  the  motion  makes  a 
draught  and  we  do  not  more  than  /?a// roast." 

"  Then  it  never  gets  very  cool  down  here  ?"  was  the  nest 
inquiry. 

"  Not  very  .^"  answered  the  fireman,  sententiously.  "  But 
we  never  have  the  worst  of  these  hot  fires,"  he  continued, 


THE      COWARD.  213 

answenne:  somethinn^  that  had  not  been  spoken  but  that 
seemed  to  be  in  the  face  of  his  auditor. 

''  Who  then  ?" 

"  The  passengers — at  least  some  of  them — on  board  any 
steamer  that  carries  them  over  sea  or  down  the  coast." 

"  You  mean  when  they — when  the  steamers  take  fire  and 
burn  ?"  The  question  was  asked  in  what  seemed  to  be  a 
hurried  and  troubled  voice  ;  and  had  not  the  reflected  glow 
from  the  furnace  made  every  thing  red  under  its  light,  there 
might  have  been  seen  a  face  of  ghastly  white  contrasting  with 
the  dark  and  grimy  one  so  near. 

"No  !"  and  the  stoker  laughed.  "I  did  not  mean  that — 
only  the  thought  of  it.  Steamers  do  not  burn  very  often — 
not  half  so  often  as  I  should  think  they  would,  the  way  they 
are  built,  and  with  a  w^hole  Pennsylvania  coal-mine  on  fire 
inside  of  them  at  once.  When  they  do  go,  though,  they 
make  things  howl  !  No  slow  burning,  as  there  is  sometimes 
on  sailing-vessels,  so  that  they  can  batten  down  the  hatches 
and  keep  :he  fire  under  until  there  is  a  chance  of  help  :  every 
thing  g0:;s  in  a  moment,  and  all  is  over  in  an  hour — iron 
steamer  or  wood,  very  little  difference." 

*'  Horrible  !"  said  the  lawyer.  •  The  word  seemed  forced 
from  him,  and  there  could  not  be  a  doubt  that  he  was  at  the 
moment  fancying  some  terrible  reality. 

"Yes,  horrible  enough!"  answered  the  stok  r.  "But 
what  I  was  speaking  of,  is  the  foolish  habit  that  passengers 
have — I  have  seen  it  often  in  crossing  the  Atlantic — of  coming 
down  into  the  fire-room  very  soon  after  they  start,  and  ta'dng 
a  look  at  the  furnaces.  A  good  many  of  them  never  slet  r;  a 
wink  afterwards,  during  the  whole  voyage,  I  believe,  think- 
ing of  that  mass  of  red-hot  coal  lying  in  the  middle  of  t^.-e 
ship,  and  wondering  wJien  she  is  going  to  burn.  They  are 
fools  to  come  down  at  all  :  if  they  would  jnst  keep  out  of  the 
way  they  would  never  know  how  badly  it  looks,  and  then  at 
least  they  would  never  be  burned  until  their  time  came  I" 

Just  then   the  raging  monster  within   seemed  to  demand 


214  THE      COWARD. 

more  blazing  food,  and  the  stoker  turned  away  to  attend  to 
his  duty.  Had  be  remained  conversing  one  moment  longer, 
he  might  have  seen  Carlton  Brand  totter  back  against  the 
bulk-head  of  the  fire-room,  literally  gasping  for  breath — then 
grapple  for  the  railing  of  the  stairs,  and  ascend  the  steps 
with  the  staggering  motion  of  a  sick  or  drunken  man,  breath- 
ing heavily  and  giving  painful  indications  of  being  on  tho 
verge  of  falling  insensible. 

When  the  lav^yer  again  emerged  to  the  air  of  the  deck,  his 
face  was  ghastly  white,  and  he  seemed  altogether  strangely 
altered  since  the  moment  of  his  descent  into  those  regions  of 
fire  and  grime  and  terrible  suggestion.  What  had  so  changed 
him  ? — the  heafe,  choking  his  lungs  and  preying  upon  a  frame 
unaccustomed  to  it  ? — or  had  the  curse  of  his  nature  again 
found  him  out,  in  the  low  of  the  furnaces  and  the  heedless 
conversation  of  the  fireman  ?  and  did  he  remember  that 
between  himself  and  even  that  flight  beyond  the  sea  which 
only  could  shut  out  from  his  ears  the  voice  of  contempt  and 
the  cry  of  a  neglected  country,  there  yet  lay  the  peril  of  the 
Amazon  and  the  Austria  ? 

This  ocL;irred  on  Friday  the  third  of  July  ;  and  between 
that  day  and  the  Sunday  fcJllowing  there  was  nothing  in  the 
movements  of  the  sojourner  at  the  Fifth  Avenue,  worthy  of 
special  record.  But  on  that  Sunday  afternoon,  perhaps  at 
the  very  hour  when  Kitty  Hood,  in  one  spot  of  that  section 
of  country  which  had  been  his  old  home,  was  ulorying  over 
her  lover's  having  been  at  Gettysburgh, — and  when  Robert 
Brard,  in  another,  was  writhing  and  cursing  over  the  absence 
of  his  son  from  the  same  great  battle, — an  incident  took  place 
at  the  hotel,  apparently  trivial,  but  which  may  subsequently 
be  found  to  have  exercised  no  slight  influence  on  the  fortunes 
of  some  of  the  difterent  persons  named  in  this  chronicle. 
Unfortunately,  again,  over  this  little  event  hangs  a  mist  and 
a  shadow,  and  only  slight  glimpses  can  be  obtained  of  what 
afterwards  proved  to  he  of  such  unsuspected  importance. 

On  that  Sundav  afternoon,  at  about  two   o'clock,  Carlton 


THE      COWARD.  21L' 

Brand  went  down  from  his  room  to  the  office  of  the  hotel,  to 
exchange  a  few  words  with  the  clerk,  and  to  secure  one  of  the 
battle-extras  which  he  had  just  heard  from  his  window  cried 
in  the  street.  Knots  of  men,  guests,  or  passers-by,  driven  in 
by  the  pouring  rain  without,  filled  the  long  hall,  every  third 
holding  a  newspaper,  every  group  in  more  or  less  animated 
conversation,  and  the  one  topic  that  great  conflict  which  had 
just  bloomed  out  into  a  great  victory.  The  lawyer  seemed 
to  have  company  enough  in  his  own  thoughts,  and  did  not 
join  any  of  the  groups.  He  secured  his  extra,  transacted  his 
brief  business  at  the  desk,  and  returned  immediately  up- 
stairs. The  moment  after  he  had  left  the  desk,  a  young  man 
advanced  from  one  of  the  groups  near  th&  door,  asked  a 
question  of  the  clerk,  was  answered,  overran  a  few  pages  of 
the  register  with  eye  and  finger,  and  then  passed  up-stairs 
under  the  guidance  of  a  servant. 

Carlton  Brand  had  already  thrown  off  coat  and  boots  again, 
and  was  sitting  at  the  open  window  in  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  glancing  over  the  sensation-headings  of  the  extra 
which  gave  the  particulars  of  the  Waterloo  of  Secessia, — 
when  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  Stepping  hastily  thither 
and  opening  it,  with  a  muttered  wonder  why  he  could  not 
be  left  alone  to  his  reading,  a  weil-known  figure  stepped  into 
the  room  and  one  of  his  Philadelphia  bar-intimates — perhaps 
the  nearest  to  a  confidential  friend  in  the  whole  profession, 
took  him  by  the  hand.  For  an  instant  the  occupant  of  the 
room  seemed  to  be  displeased  at  the  intrusion  and  an  expres- 
sion of  annoyance  flitted  over  his  face  ;  but  old  friendship 
was  evidently  too  powerful  even  for  shame  and  lacerated 
feeling,  and  the  next  instant  he  had  cordially  returned  ibe 
grasp. 

The  new-comer,  strangely  enough,  bore  no  slight  resem- 
blance to  Carlton  Bund.  We  z?j  stranfrely,  because  the 
lawyer  was  by  no  means  such  a  person,  in  general  appear- 
ance, as  could  be  readily  duplicated.  Henry  Thornton,  his 
professional    brother,    had    the    same    tall,   lithe    figure  with 


216  THE      COWAK  D. 

evidence  of  great  agility,  the  same  mould  of  countenance  in 
many  respects,  and  with  eyes  of  hazel  only  a  shade  darker 
than  Brand's.  But  here  the  resemblance,  which  might  other- 
wise have  been  extraordinary,  became  slighter  and  eventually 
disappeared.  His  complexion  was  much  darker,  even  brown, 
from  chin  to  forehead, indicating  Southern  blood  or  residence. 
His  hair,  curling  a  little,  was  of  very  dark  brown,  almost 
black ;  and  his  heavy  moustache,  the  only  beard  he  wore, 
was  so  nearly  black  as  generally  to  pass  under  that  designa- 
tion. In  spite  of  the  similarity  of  form  and  feature,  it  may 
be  imagined  that  these  differences  told  very  strongly  on  the 
general  effect  produced  by  the  two  men  on  the  mere  casual 
observer;  and  \yhile  there  was  that  indefinable  something  in 
the  face  of  Carlton  Brand,  to  which  attention  has  before 
been  called,  denoting  intellect  and  true  nobility  of  soul, 
accompanied  by  an  occasional  pitiable  weakness  or  want  of 
self-assertion  of  the  full  manhood,  there  was  that  quite  as 
plainly  to  be  read  in  the  face  of  Henry  Thornton,  which  told 
of  dauntless  courage  and  iron  will,  a  brain  busy  and  scheming 
if  not  even  plotting,  and  powers  which  might  not  always  be 
turned  to  the  service  of  the  candid,  the  open  and  the  honor- 
able. Lavater  would  have  thought,  looking  at  his  face — 
Well  for  him  and  for  the  world  if  what  he  wills  is  in  conso- 
nance with  honor  and  justice,  for  what  he  wills  he  will 
pursue  with  the  unfaltering  courage  of  the  lion  and  the 
untiring  determination  of  the  sleuth-hound  ! 

But  Nature,  giving  to  these  two  men  who  held  no  known 
relationship  whatever,  so  striking  a  resemblance  in  some 
particulars  and  so  great  a  dissimilarity  in  others — had  not 
quite  ended  her  freak  of  comparison.  It  is  doubtful  whether 
either  was  fully  aware  of  the  fact,  but  the  similarity  between 
the  tones  of  their  voices,  in  ordinary  times,  was  quite  as 
marked  as  that  between  certain  physical  features ;  and  any 
person  standing  that  day  without  the  door,  when  the  two 
had  entered  into  conversation,  might  have  been  puzzled  to 
know  whether  two  persons  were  really  speaking  or  one  was 


THE      COWARD.  217 

carrying  on  a  monologue.  This,  only  at  ordinary  times  : 
Thornton's  voice  was  much  steadier  and  more  uniform  under 
feeling,  and  it  never  broke  into  tones  so  low  and  melancholy 
as  that  of  the  other,  when  influenced  by  temporary  depression. 

Such  was  Carlton  Brand's  visitor  on  that  Sunday  after- 
noon, and  he  it  was  who  but  the  moment  after  was  seated 
in  the  proffered  chair  near  the  window  and  chatting  upon 
current  topics  with  as  much  nonchalance  as  if  he  had  merely 
called  upon  his  entertainer  at  his  little  office  on  Sixth  Street, 
Philadelphia,  instead  of  visiting  him  at  a  hotel  in  a  distant 
city. 

There  was  a  little  table  standing  between  the  two  windows 
of  the  room  and  within  reach  of  Thornton  as  he  sat.  On  the 
table  lay  part  of  that  miscellaneous  collection  of  articles 
which  every  careless  bachelor  will  persist  in  scattering  about 
his  room  at  the  hotel ;  and  at  the  edge  of  what  may  be  called 
the  pile  lay  a  paper  more  than  half  unfolded,  which  caught 
the  observant  eye  of  the  visitor.  With  a  quick  :  "  Will  you 
allow  me  ?"  which  brought  an  affirmative  response,  he  reached 
over,  took  up  the  paper,  unfolded  it  and  read  a  receipt  for  a 
first  cabin  passage  in  the  Gunard  Mail  Steamship  to  sail  from 
New  York  to  Liverpool,  on  the  8th  July,  for  which  $130.50 
had  been  paid  by  Mr.  Carlton  Brand. 

"The  Cunarder  for  Liverpool  next  Wednesday,"  he  said, 
when  he  had  finished  running  his  eye  over  the  passage-ticket. 

"  Yer,"  answered  the  owner,  and  he  answered  nothing 
more. 

A  ctrange  expression  passed  over  the  face  of  his  interroga- 
tor— an  expression  so  doubtful  that  even  Lavater,  or  any 
other  man  pretending  to  read  the  human  coun^enance  like  an 
open  book,  might  have  been  puzzled  to  say  vvhether  it  con- 
^veyed  pleasure,  scorn,  wonder,  or  any  one  of  the  thousand 
different  feelings  whose  outward  show  glints  over  our  faces 
a-  often  and  as  transiently  as  the  cloud-shadows  fl  mating  over 
the  mountain  woods  or  the  mottled  sunshine  flickering  over 
the  wheat-fields.     There    was   something   there — something 


218  THE      COW  A  ED. 

which  the  other  did  not  appear  to  notice ;  and  with  that 
fact  we  must  be  content. 

Five  minutes  later,  Carlton  Brand,  through  the  medium  of 
words  growing  out  of  the  discovery  of  the  passage-ticket, 
was  in  confidential  conversation  with  Henry  Thornton  with 
reference  to  the  disgrace  which  had  driven  him  from  home 
and  must  make  him  an  exile  for  years  if  not  forever.  It  may 
have  been  a  serious  weakness,  tow^ards  one  who  had  never 
been  even  on  terms  of  speaking  acquaintance  with  her,  to 
talk  to  him  of  Margaret  Hayley  and  to  confess  the  shameful 
dismissal  which  he  had  received.  But  Henry  Thornton  knew 
of  the  Hay  leys  if  he  did  not  claim  an  acquaintance  with 
them  ;  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  impart  information  of  them 
and  their  probable  movements  during  the  summer,  which  the 
other  might  have  found  difficulty  in  obtaining  through  any 
other  means ;  and  perhaps  that  knowledge  gave  some  excuse 
for  reciprocal  confidence.  At  all  events  that  confidence  was 
given,  and  it  elicited  a  return  of  apparently  equal  candor. 
Before  the  separation  took  place,  at  the  end  of  an  interview 
which  lasted  more  than  an  hour,  a  strange  bond  seemed  to 
have  been  established  and  cemented  betw^een  the  two  lawyers, 
very  different  from  any  which  official  intercourse  can  often 
river.  That  interview,  in  fact,  appeared  to  have  pre  luced 
marked  effects  upon  both,  for  while  on  the  face  of  Henry 
Thornton,  as  he  rose  to  take  his  farewell,  there  was  a  look  of 
entire  satisfaction  that  v^ould  not  have  been  without  a  meaning 
more  or  less  creditable, — there  was  in  the  eye  of  Carlton 
Brand  less  of  that  troubled  expression  which  had  been  for 
days  resting  there  like  a  shadow,  and  he  breathed  as  if  a 
w^eight  had  been  lifted  from  his  breast.  To  one  this  new 
satisfaction  and  lightness  of  heart  may  have  been  no  false 
presage  :  to  the  other,  w^hat  an  omen  of  unsuspected  evil,  dis- 
aster and  death  ! 

They  parted  at  the  door  of  the  lawyer's  room,  with  a  much 
warmer  grasp  of  the  hand  than  that  w:'h  which  they  had  met 
little  more  than  a  hour  before  ;  and  each  held  the  palm  of  the 


THE      COWARD.  219 

other  ill  his  for  a  moment,  as  those  should  do  who  have  how- 
ever slight  a  bond  in  common  and  between  whom  the  waves 
of  a  whole  wia?  o^ean  are  so  soon  to  roll. 

"A  pleasant  voyage  and  a  happy  return  I"  said  the  one,  on 
the  threshold. 

"A  pleasant  summer  to  you,  wherever  you  are  !"  was  the 
reply  of  the  other. 

So  parted,  after  that  brief  meeting,  Henry  Thornton  and 
Carlton  Brand.  The  bearer  of  that  latter  name,  once  so 
honored  but  now  holding  so  doubtful  a  position,  left  New 
York  by  the  Cunarder  Scotia  from  Jersey  City  on  Wednesday 
the  8th  of  July,  looking  his  last  that  evening  from  the  deck 
of  bis  steamer,  on  the  dim  blue  line  of  the  Highlands — a 
fading  speck  of  that  native  land  that  the  fates  had  ordained 
he  should  never  see  again  with  his  living  eyes  !  And  as  at  this 
moment  we  lose  sight  of  him  for  the  time,  to  trace  the  for- 
tunes of  others  remaining  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  it  may 
be  well  to  say  that  his  outward  voyage  must  have  been  a  safe 
and  prosperous  one,  for  there  was  duly  registered  as  having 
arrived  at  Liverpool,  on  the  twentieth  of  July,  (a  date  which 
it  may  afterwards  be  important  to  remember)  "  Carlton  Brand, 
Philadelphia." 


CHAPTER   XI. 


Anomalies  op  the  War  for  the  Unton — The  Watering- 
place  RUSH  OF  1863 — A  White-Mountain  Party  disem- 
barking at  Littleton — Who  filled  the  Concord  Coach 
— The  Yanderlyns— Shoddy  ON  its  travels — Mr.  Brooks 
Cunninghame  and  his  Family — "  H.  T.,"  and  an  Ex- 
citement. 

The  War  for  the  Union  has  been  unlike  all  other  great 
struggles,  throughout,  in  nearly  every  characteristic  that  can 


220  THE      COWARD. 

be  named.  Unnatural  in  its  inception,  the  rebellion  has 
seemed  to  have  the  power  of  making  unnatural  many  of  the 
details  through  which  and  in  spite  of  which  it  has  been  car- 
ried forward — of  changing  character  and  subverting  all  ordi- 
nary conditions.  There  have  been  anomalies  in  the  field  : 
still  more  notable  anomalies  in  society.  Unflinching  bravery 
and  stubborn  devotion  to  the  fighting  interests  of  the  country 
have  been  found  blended,  in  the  same  man,  with  pecuniary 
dishonesty  which  seemed  capable  of  pillaging  a  death-cham- 
ber. The  greatest  military  ability  has  been  found  conjoined 
with  such  inactivity  and  tardiness  as  to  paralyze  action  and 
destroy  public  patience.  Rapidity  of  movement  has  been 
discovered  to  be  Avedded  to  such  Utopian  want  of  under- 
standing or  such  culpable  recklessness  as  to  make  movement 
not  seldom  a  blunder  instead  of  a  stroke  of  policy.  Times 
which  threatened  disaster  have  brought  triumph  ;  and  the 
preparations  made  to  celebrate  a  victory  have  more  than 
once  been  employed  in  concealing  a  defeat.  All  things  have 
been  mixed  in  estimation.  The  Copperhead,  detestable  on 
account  of  his  vievv  of  the  national  duty,  has  yet  compelled 
some  portion  of  respect  by  his  real  or  affected  reverence  for 
a  perilled  Constitution  ;  the  Radical,  worthy  of  all  credit  for 
his  active  spirit  and  uncompromising  position,  has  yet  de- 
served contempt  for  a  narrowness  of  view  which  made  him 
almost  as  dangerous  as  disloyalty  could  have  done  ;  and  the 
Conservative,  that  man  of  the  golden  mean,  that  hope  of  the 
nation  in  many  regards,  has  bargained  for  a  part  of  the  abuse 
which  he  has  received  from  either  extreme,  by  faulting  the  ac- 
tive measures  of  both  and  offering  mean-while  no  active,  prac- 
tical course  to  supply  their  stead. 

But  amid  the  general  anomaly  perhaps  fashionable  (or 
would-be  fashionaV)le)  society,  and  the  world  of  ease  and 
amusement,  have  supplied  the  most  interesting  and  the  most 
astounding  study  of  all.  The  status  of  the  "non-productive 
classes"  is  and  has  been,  during  most  of  the  struggle,  literally 
inverted,  and  the  conditions  of  costly  enjoyment  have  been 


THE      COWARD.  221 

changing  as  rapidly  as  if  we  were  rioting  through  a  carnival 
instead  of  breasting  a  rebellion.  No  nation  ever  carried  on 
such  a  war  as  that  waged  by  this  loyal  people  ;  and  no  nation 
ever  spent  so  much  blood  and  treasure  in  accomplishing  the 
same  comparative  results.  Naturally,  in  view  of  the  personal 
bereavement,  it  might  have  been  expected  that  society  should 
be  quiet  in  its  amusements  and  low-toned  in  all  its  conversa- 
tion :  naturally,  a  people  bleeding  at  every  pecuniary  pore  for 
the  public  good,  might  have  been  expected  to  diminish  per- 
sonal expenditure  and  husband  those  resources  on  the  hold- 
ing-out of  which  so  much  must  eventually  depend.  Instead 
of  this,  society,  with  the  craped  banners  and  the  muffled 
drums  every  day  appealing  to  eye  and  ear,  has  grown  con- 
tinually louder  in  its  tone  and  more  pronounced  and  evea 
blatant  in  its  mirth  ;  and  reckless  personal  expenditure  has 
quite  kept  place  with  any  general  waste  that  the  highwaymen 
or  incapables  of  government  had  power  to  entail.  The 
theatre  and  the  circus  have  never  before  been  so  full,  the 
opera  has  never  before  been  so  generally  patronized.  Baby- 
lon could  never  have  rioted  more  luxuriously  on  the  very 
night  before  its  fall,  than  have  the  people  of  our  great  cities 
dined,  ridden,  danced  and  bathed  themselves  in  seas  of  costly 
music,  any  day  since  the  first  three  months  of  the  rebellion 
ended. 

Summer  recreations  have  perhaps  told  quite  as  significant 
a  story  as  any  other  feature,  of  the  inevitable  drift  of  society 
towards  reckless  expense  and  extravagant  display.  The 
summer  resorts  within  the  rebel  territory  may  have  grown 
desolate  or  deserted — the  buildings  of  the  White  Sulphur 
and  the  Rockbridge  Alum  of  Virginia  may  have  been  left 
empty  or  turned  into  hospitals,  and  Old  Point  may  only  have 
been  visited  for  far  other  purposes  than  the  meeting  of  the 
sea-breeze  there  in  midsummer  ;  but  a  very  different  fate  has 
awaited  the  favorite  hot- weather  resorts  of  the  North.  Sara- 
toga and  Sharon  of  the  chalybeates  ;  Niagara  and  Trenton  of 
the  cataracts  ;  the  White  Mountains,  the   Cattskills  and  the 


222  THE      COWARD. 

Allcghanies,  of  the  high,  pure  air  and  the  cloud  shadow; 
Kevvport,  Rockaway,  Long  Branch  and  Cape  May  of  the 
south-eastern  breeze  and  the  salt  aroma, — all  have  been,  with 
the  exception  of  a  few  frightened  weeks  of  1861,  more  densely 
filled  during  the  war  than  at  any  former  period  in  the  memory 
of  the  pleasure-seeker  ;  and  wealth  and  enjoyment  have  both 
run  riot  there  to  an  extent  but  little  in  accordance  with  the 
sack-cloth  and  ashes  which  the  observant  eye  saw  all  the 
while  lying  on  the  head  of  the  nation  itself.  All  this  may 
have  been  inappropriate  and  a  part  of  it  painful ;  but  the 
result  could  not  well  have  been  otherwise.  Some,  with 
wealth  honestly  earned  and  no  capacity  for  the  public  ser- 
vice, have  needed  rest  or  distraction  and  there  found  one  or 
the  other.  Habitual  idlers  and  professional  students  of 
society,  never  available  for  any  other  purpose,  have  naturally, 
a.s  ever,  found  there  their  best  ground  of  personal  study. 
Young  girls  have  needed  the  experience,  and  managing  mam- 
mas have  quite  as  sorely  needed  those  fields  for  matrimonial 
campaigns.  Invalids  have  needed  their  real  or  supposed  op- 
portunity for  the  recovery  of  lost  health.  Shoddy,  grown 
suddenly  rich  while  remaining  incurably  ignorant  and  vulgar, 
and  finding  it  no  easy  task  to  force  its  way  into  the  coveted 
"  society"  in  the  great  cities,  has  eagerly  welcomed  the  op- 
portunities there  afforded  for  at  least  learning  the  rudiments 
of  what  is  called  gentility,  and  creeping  into  that  miscel- 
laneous outer  circle  which  surrounds  the  charmed  inner. 
Politicians  have  found  it  necessary  to  do,  in  such  places,  that 
particular  portion  of  the  great  task  of  boring,  button-holing, 
prying  and  packing  which  cannot  be  so  well  done  either  at 
the  primary  election  or  the  convention  as  around  the  spring 
or  on  the  b.ach — on  the  piazza  of  the  Ocean  House  or  the 
United  States ;  and  oflBcers  on  furlough,  who  had  fought 
enough  for  the  time  or  had  no  intention  to  fight  at  all,  have 
found  no  places  like  these  for  displaying  jaunty  uniform  and 
decorated  shoulder  to  the  admiring  eyes  of  that  sex  which 
descends  from  Athena  and  recognizes  the  cousinship  of  Mars. 


THE      COArARD.  223 

Add  to  all  this  the  rise  of  exchange  on  Europe  and  the  folly 
of  steamship  companies  in  charging  gold  rates  for  passages 
abroad,  which  have  together  almost  checked  the  summer 
exodus  to  the  Old  AYorld, — and  there  is  no  longej  reason  to 
wonder  at  the  watering-place  crowds  and  the  summer  gayeties 
which  have  made  carnival  throughout  the  loyal  States  and 
lilled  the  wallets  of  enterprizing  landlords. 

The  year  of  grace  1863  saw  an  earlier  beginning  to  the 
summer  hegira  than  any  other  late  year  had  done,  as  before 
its  close  it  saw  houses  over-crowded,  waiters  over-worked, 
and  cots  at  a  premium,  from  Casco  to  Cresson.  The  smoke 
had  not  yet  rolled  away  from  Gettysburgh  when  "  the  great 
North  River  travelling- trunk"  began  its  perambulations  ;  and 
by  the  middle  of  July  everybody  who  was  anybody  (except  a 
few  in  the  city  of  New  York,  temporarily  frightened  or  hin- 
dered by  the  riots)  wa^  gone  from  the  great  cities,  and  they 
were  given  over  to  the  temporary  occupancy  of  those  laboring 
starlings  who  could  not  ''get  out,"  and  the  ever  ebbing  and 
flowing  wave  of  transient  visit. 

All  this  as  a  necessary  reminder  of  the  period  and  a  back- 
ground to  the  incidents  so  soon  to  follow^, — and  because  the 
course  of  narration,  at  this  juncture,  leads  us  for  a  time  to  one 
of  the  favorite  shrines  of  American  summer  pilgrimage  and 
into  the  whirl  of  that  literal  storm  of  fashion  and  curiosity 
which  eddies  and  sweeps,  all  summer  lung,  around  the  peaks 
of  the  White  Mountains— the  Alps  of  Eastern  America. 

It  was  a  somewhat  varied  as  well  as  extensive  crowd  of 
passengers  that  disembarked  from  the  cars  of  the  White 
Mountain  Railroad  at  Littleton,  in  sight  of  the  IVead-waiers 
of  the  Connecticut,  about  five  o'clock  on  Wednesday  after- 
noon, the  29th  of  July.  The  dog-days  had  begun  ;  New 
York,  Philadelphia  and  Boston  were  steaming  furnaces,  though 
partially  emptied  as  we  have  before  had  occasion  tc  notice  ; 
and  those  who  had  already  visited  them  during  the  month, 
declared  that  neither  Saratoga,  the  Cattskills,  or  even  Lake 
George  or  Niagara,  had  the  power  to  impart  any  coolness  to 


224  THECOWAKD. 

suffering  humanity.  The  sea-shore  or  the  northern  mountains 
offered  the  only  alternative  ;  and  a  very  heavy  list  of  passen- 
gers had  come  up  that  day  by  the  Norwich  and  Worcester 
line  from  New  York,  the  Boston  lines  falling  in  at  Nashua 
Junction,  and  the  Vermont  Central  throwing  in  its  reinforce- 
ment at  Wells  River. 

Every  portion  of  the  loyal  States  (and  no  doubt  a  portion 
of  the  disloyal,  if  the  truth  could  have  been  known  !)  had 
seemed  to  be  represented  in  the  crowd  that  thronged  the 
platforms  while  lighting  for  a  mouthful  of  lunch  at  Nashua 
Junction  or  crowding  in  to  a  hurried  dinner  at  the  poor  sub- 
stitute for  the  burned  Pemigawasset  House  at  Plymouth. 
There  were  even  half  a  dozen  resident  Europeans — English, 
Scotch,  with  one  Frenchman  who  snuffed  continually,  and  one 
Spaniard  who  smoked  in  season  and  out  of  season — people 
who  had  no  doubt  rushed  over  to  see  the  "  American  war/' 
but  very  soon  found  the  South  too  hot  for  comfort,  in  one 
sense  or  the  other, — among  the  number  destined  to  add  vari- 
ety to  the  overfilled  caravanserais  of  the  Franconia  and  White 
ranges.  A  few  had  dropped  aw^ay  at  Weir's  Landing,  for  a 
day  or  two  on  Lake  Winnipiseogee,  enticed  by  the  pleasant 
loom  of  Centre  Harbor  down  the  bright  blue  water  and  the 
romantic  figure  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake  on  the  prow  of  her 
namesake  steamer;  and  a  few  more  had  left  the  train  at 
Plymouth  for  the  long  coach-ride  of  thirty  miles  through  the 
mountains  to  the  Glen  House,  or  by  the  southern  approach  to 
the  Profile  or  the  Crawford.  Two  or  three  stage-loads,  too, 
who  had  but  one  thought  in  their  pilgrimage — Mount  Wash- 
ington,— were  bustling  in  for  the  immediate  ride  from  Little- 
ton to  the  Crawford  ;  but  there  were  still  four  heavy  stage- 
loads — not  less  than  forty  to  fifty  persons — going  on  to  the 
crowded  Profile  House  that  evening. 

Some  of  the  occupants  of  one  of  those  heavy  stages,  rolling 
away  towards  the  Profile,  require,  for  the  purposes  of  this 
narration,  a  somewhat  closer  view  than  was  probably  taken 


THE      COWARD.  225 

of  them  by  many  of  their  fellow-passengors  ;  and  that  view 
cannot  be  more  appropriately  taken  than  at  this  moment. 

On  the  back  seat  of  that  vehicle  sat  two  ladies,  with  a 
troublesome  boy  of  ten  years  wedged  in  between  them  as  if 
to  come  the  nearest  possible  to  getting  him  out  of  the  way. 
Neither  paid  the  youngster  that  attention  which  would  have 
indicated  that  he  belonged  to  them  or  was  travelling  in  their 
company;  and  indeed  they  had  every  right  as  well  as  every 
inclination  to  wash  their  bands  of  his  relationship  if  they 
could  not  wash  from  their  travelling-dresses  the  marks  of  his 
taflfy-smeared  fingers.  The  two  ladies  were  evidently  mother 
and  daughter ;  and  at  least  one  person  in  the  coach  had  re- 
marked them  as  they  came  up  from  Concord,  and  seen  that 
their  sole  chaperon  and  protector  seemed  to  be  a  son  of  the 
one  and  brother  of  the  other,  some  eighteen  or  twenty  years 
of  age.  As  he  saw  them  then  and  "as  he  afterwards  better 
knew  them,  they  may  be  briefly  described. 

The  Yanderlyns  were  Baltimoreans — the  widow  and  chil- 
dren of  a  man  of  large  wealth  and  considerable  distinction, 
who  had  died  three  or  four  years  before  in  that  city,  after 
having  amassed  a  fortune  by  property  speculations  and  sub- 
sequently filled  more  than  one  responsible  office  under  the 
State  government.  They  had  the  true  Southern  pride  in 
wealth  and  position ;  and  the  hand  of  the  daughter  had  al- 
ready been  sought,  however  ineffectually,  by  scions  of  the  best 
families  in  and  about  the  Monumental  city.  Let  it  be  added 
that  they  belonged,  whatever  may  have  been  their  pride  and 
arrogance  as  a  family,  to  the  not-too-extensive  class  of  loyal 
Marylanders,— and  then  a  better  title  of  nobility  will  have 
been  enrolled  than  any  that  Clayton  Yanderlyn's  money  and 
former  public  employments  had  power  to  supply.  The 
widowed  mother  and  her  children  were  among  the  few  resi- 
dents below  Mason  and  Dixon's  line  who  had  not  forgotten 
the  pleasant  summer  days  of  old  in  the  North,  when  Puritan 
and  Cavalier  met  as  friends  and  brothers ;  and  this  summer 
14 


226  THE      COWARD. 

tour,  which  was  to  include  Saratoga  and  Newport  before  it 
closed,  was  a  result  of  the  old  recollection. 

Mrs.  Yanderlyn,  the  mother,  seemed  forly-fiv^e,  but  wa3 
fine-looking  and  had  evidently  been  handsome  in  her  youth — 
with  those  splendid  broTMi  eyes  that  must  then  have  sparkled 
so  much  more  brilliantly  than  at  this  period,  and  that  perfect 
wealth  of  chestnut  hair,  not  yet  in  the  least  sprinkled  with 
gray,  which  must  then  have  been  a  charm  and  a  glory.  Her 
travelling-dress  was  very  plain,  but  of  the  best  materials ; 
and  eveiy  thing  in  her  appearance— especially  pride  of  look 
and  action, — spoke  of  wealth,  the  habit  of  mingling  in  that 
indefinable  but  actual  thing,  good  society,  and  a  perfect  con- 
sciousness of  what  she  was  and  what  she  possessed.  Those 
who  looked  twice  upon  Mrs.  Yanderlyn,  with  keen  eyes,  had 
no  difiSculty  in  deciding  that  she  might  be  a  very  pleasant 
acquaintance  for  those  in  her  own  "  set"  and  whom  she  con- 
sidered her  equals, — but  that  she  would  be  any  thing  but  a 
pleasant  acquaintance  for  those  whom  she  despised  or  with 
whom  she  chanced  to  fall  into  feud. 

Clara  Yanderlyn,  the  daughter,  was  a  yet  more  interesting 
study  than  her  mother ;  and  it  seemed  altogether  probable 
that  the  same  observer  before  mentioned,  and  who  will  be 
hereafter  more  particularly  introduced,  coming  up  in  the  same 
car  from  Xa.shua  and  again  thrown  into  near  proximity  in  the 
coach,  had  read  and  was  reading  that  second  page  of  the 
Yanderlyn  genealogy  with  peculiar  care  and  attention.  She 
was  of  middle  height ;  slight,  but  well-rounded  and  evidently 
elastic  in  figure,  with  a  clearly  cut  but  very  pleasant  face, 
eyes  a  shade  darker  than  Mrs.  Yanderlyn's,  and  hair  what 
that  lady's  had  probably  been  twenty  years  before.  A  won- 
derful feature,  indeed,  was  that  head  of  hair — fine,  silken,  but 
perfectly  massive  in  profusion,  with  more  of  a  tendency  to 
the  wave  than  the  curl,  and  of  that  rich  golden  chestnut  or 
true  auburn  so  seldom  seen  though  so  often  lauded.  At  the 
first  observation,  it  seemed  that  Clara  Yanderlyn's  hair  was 
the  great  charm  of  her  presence  ;  but  those  who  had  the  good 


THK      COWARD.  227 

fortune  to  bo  many  liours  in  her  company,  learned  that  a  still 
stronger  and  more  abiding  charm  lay  in  the  affability  of  her 
manners,  the  expression  of  thorough  goodness  in  her  whole 
demeanor,  and  the  purity  and  sweetness  of  her  smile.  That 
f  ice  was  certainly  worthy  of  the  fixed  gaze  which  had  rested 
upon  it  quite  as  often  during  the  afternoon  as  delicacy  per- 
mitted ;  and  it  might  even  have  furnished  excuse  for  glancing 
at  it  a  moment  too  long,  and  planting  blushes  on  those  cheeks 
that  the  lip  could  have  no  hope  of  gathering. 

The  third  and  youngest  of  the  family,  Frank  Yanderlyn, 
did  not  enter  into  the  group  under  observation,  as  he  was  at 
that  time  on  the  top  of  the  coach  with  half  a  dozen  others, 
enjoying  the  cigar  which  had  been  impossible  in  the  passenger- 
car.  But  the  glimpses  caught  of  him  before  disembarking, 
may  suffice  to  complete  the  family  triad.  He  seemed  a  well- 
grown  stripling,  verging  upon  manhood,  with  a  face  distantly 
reminding  the  observer  of  his  sister's,  but  with  darker  hair 
than  either  Mrs.  Yanderlyn  or  Clara,  and  with  an  expression 
of  settl'ed  hauteur  upon  his  well-cut  features,  which  very  much 
detracted  from  the  charm  of  a  face  that  would  otherwise  have 
])een  singularly  handsome.  He  was  dressed  a  little  too  well 
for  dusty  travel,  and  wore  more  wealth  in  a  single  diamond 
in  his  cravat  and  a  cluster-ring  on  the  little  finger  of  his  right 
hand,  than  most  young  men  would  have  been  either  able  or 
willing  to  devote  to  such  purposes  of  mere  ornament. 

This  description  of  the  occupants  of  that  singularly-fortu- 
nate coach  may  have  very  little  interest  beyond  that  of  a 
mere  catalogue  ;  yet  it  must  be  continued,  for  Fate,  that  grim 
old  auctioneer  who  sometimes  knocks  us  down  at  very  low 
prices  and  to  odd  owners,  may  have  some  necessity  for  a 
mercantile  list  of  his  chattels. 

The  occupants  of  the  middle  seat  were  three  in  number, 
and  they  could  have  furnished  any  needed  information  as  to 
the  personality  of  the  troublesome  boy  with  the  tafified  fingers, 
who  had  been  wedged  between  Clara  Yanderlyn  and  her 
mother.     All  of  one  familv — that  second  triad  :  Mr.  Brooks 


228  THE      COWARD. 

Cunninghame,  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  and  Miss  Marianna 
Brooks  Cunninghame.  The  first,  a  squat  man  of  fifty-five, 
with  a  broad,  coarse,  beardless  face,  bad  teeth  and  bristly 
gray  hair  just  sufi'ering  under  its  first  infliction  of  slaty-brown 
hair-dye.  His  large  hands  had  been  all  day  cased  in  kid 
gloves,  spite  of  the  heat  of  the  weather ;  and  his  gray  suit, 
of  really  fine  material,  had  a  sort  of  new  look,  and  did  not 
seem  to  be  worn  easily.  There  was  an  impression  carried 
about  by  the  man  and  disseminated  at  every  movement,  that 
an6ther  and  a  much  shabbier  suit  hung  immediately  behind 
his  bed-room  door  at  home,  and  that  in  that  he  would  have 
been  easy  and  comfortable,  while  in  the  fashionable  garb  he 
was  laboring  under  a  sort  of  Sunday-clothes  restraint.  The 
second,  a  stout  woman  of  fifty,  with  reddish  hair,  a  coarse 
pink  face,  high  cheek  bones  and" pert  nose,  corresponding  well 
with  her  lord  in  conformation,  while  it  wore  an  expression  of 
dignity  and  self-satisfaction  to  which  the  countenance  of  that 
poor  man  could  not  have  made  the  least  pretension.  She 
was  only  a  Utile  overdressed,  for  travelling — her  bonnet  of  fine 
straw  too  much  of  a  flower-garden  for  her  years,  a  heavy  gold 
watch-chain  with  the  watch  prominent,  a  diamond  breastpin 
flashing  hotly,  and  her  voluminous  blue  lawn  of  costly  fabric 
partiall}'  covered  by  a  long  gray  mantle  which  must  have 
been  recommended  to  her  by  some  mautua-maker  with  a 
"spasm  of  sense."  But  if  there  was  any  restraint  in  the 
make-up  of  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  that  restraint  was 
fully  compensated  by  the  gorgeousness  of  the  general  arrange- 
ment of  Miss  Marianna.  That  young  lady  of  thirty,  with  a 
large  mouth,  sandy  hair,  bluish  gray  eyes  and  freckles,  a 
dumpy  figure  and  no  eye-brows  whatever,  was  arrayed — . 
shade  of  Madame  La  Modiste  forgive  us  while  we  pen  the 
record — arrayed'' for  that  hot  and  dusty  day  of  railroad  and 
coach  riding,  in  a  rich  pink  silk  flounced  and  braided  to  the 
extreme  of  the  current  fashion  ;  with  a  jockey  leghorn  and 
white  feather  which — well,  we  may  say  with  truth  that  they 
relieved  her  face  ;  with  a  braided  mantle  of  white  merino  that 


THE      COWARD.  229 

might  have  been  originally  designed  for  an  opera-cloak ; 
white  kid  gloves  in  a  transition  state  ;  and  such  a  profusion 
of  gold  watch,  gold  chain,  enamelled  bracelet,  diamond  cluster- 
breastpin,  costly  lace,  and  other  feminine  means  of  attracting 
admiration  and  envy,  that  the  brain  of  a  masculine  relator 
reels  among  the  chaos  of  finery  and  he  desists  in  despair. 
The  fourth  of  this  family  was  Master  Brooks  Brooks  Cunning- 
hame,  cetat  ten,  wedged  in  between  the  two  aristocratic  rep- 
resentatives of  the  A^anderlyn  exclusiveness,  and  the  freckles 
on  his  coarse  little  face  and  hands  about  equally  balanced  by 
the  dauby  debris  of  more  or  less  hardened  taify  to  which  al- 
lusion has  before  been  unavoidably  made. 

This  group  (the  fact  may  as  well  be  set  down  in  this  place 
as  at  any  later  period) — this  was  Shoddy  on  its  summer  tour. 
Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame  had  been,  a  considerable  number  of 
years  before,  Patrick  B.  Cunningham  ;  and  his  name  had 
been  scraw^led,  many  hundreds  of  times,  to  receipts  for  work 
done  as  a  petty  contractor  about  the  streets  of  New  York  City, 
with  one  horse  and  a  dirt-cart,  digging  out  cellars,  and  help- 
ing to  cart  the  dirt  of  pipe-layings  and  excavations.  Grad- 
ually he  had  crept  up  to  two  carts,  and  then  to  three.  Even- 
tually he  had  reached  the  employing  of  a  dozen  or  two,  with 
the  bipeds  that  drove  and  the  quadrupeds  that  drew  them. 
By  that  time  he  had  removed  from  his  shanty  of  one  story 
and  rented  a  house.  Then  he  had  gone  into  ward  politics 
and  contracts  with  the  city,  at  about  the  same  time,  and 
emerged  into  possession  of  a  couple  of  brown-stone-front 
houses  and  a  seat  in  the  Board  of  Aldermen,  at  periods  not 
very  far  apart.  People  said  that  the  seat  in  the  municipal 
board,  with  the  "ring"  performances  (more  or  less  clown-ish) 
thereunto  appertaining,  were  made  the  means  of  increasing 
the  two  houses  to  four  and  of  causing  Mrs.  Patrick  B.  Cun- 
ningham to  forget  the  whole  of  her  husband's  first  name  and 
merely  use  the  initials  "P.  B.,"  which  might  or  might  not 
stand  for  'Polio  Belvidere.  Then  had  come  the  war,  with 
that  golden  opportunity  for  all  who  stood  prepared  for  it. 


230  THE      COWARD. 

Mr.  P.  B.  Cunningham  bad  been  at  that  time  the  proprietor 

of  some  fifty  or  sixty  frallant  steeds  used  before  dirt-carts,  and 
his  vigorous  and  patriotic  mind  had  conceived  the  propriety 
of  aiding  the  country  by  disposing  of  those  mettled  chargers 
as  aids  towards  a  first-class  cavalry  mount.  He  had  sold, 
prospered,  bought  more  dirt-cart  and  stage-horses  with  an 
admixture  of  those  only  to  be  discovered  between  the  thills 
of  clam-wagons,  found  no  difficulty- in  passing  them  as  fit  for 
the  service,  through  the  kindness  of  a  friendly  inspector  who 
only  charged  two  dollars  per  head  for  deciding  favorably 
on  the  quadrupeds, — sold  and  prospered  again  and  yet  again. 
Mr.  P.  B.  Cunningham  had  accordingly  found  himself,  three 
months  before  the  period  of  this  narration,  the  lawful  proprie- 
tor of  half  a  million,  acquired  in  the  most  loyal  manner  and 
without  for  one  momont  wavering  in  his  connection  with 
either  Tammany  Hatl,  through  which  he  managed  the  Demo- 
crats, or  the  Loyal  League  by  which  he  kept  in  favor  with 
the  Republicans. 

So  far  Mr.  P.  B.  Cunningham  had  been  uninterruptedly 
successful — the  monarch  as  well  as  architect  of  his  own  for- 
tune. But  at  that  period  (the  three  months  before)  he  had 
suddenly  been  made  aware  that  every  man  has  his  fate  and 
the  end  of  his  career  of  supremacy.  Mrs.  P.  B.  Cunningham 
had  proved  herself  his  fate  and  put  a  sudden  end  to  his 
supremacy.  That  lady,  all  the  while  emerging,  had  emerged, 
from  the  dust  and  darkness  of  lower  fortune,  and  become  a 
fashionable  butterfly.  She  had  ordered  him  to  buy  a  four- 
story  brown-stone  front,  finer  than  any  that  he  owned,  on  one 
of  the  up-town  streets  not  far  from  the  Avenue ;  and  he 
had  obeyed.  She  had  ordered  him  to  discard  his  old  clothes, 
and  he  had  obeyed  again,  though  with  a  sincere  reluctance. 
She  had  changed  his  name  to  Brooks  Cunninghame,  (observe 
the  el)  her  own  to  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  that  of  Mary 
Ann  to  Miss  Marianna  Brooks  Cunninghame,  and  that  of  the 
male  scion  of  the  house,  cetat  ten  as  aforesaid,  to  Master 
Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame.     The  door-plate  of  the  new 


THE      COWARD.  231 

house  could  not  be  arranged  in  accordance  with  the  new  pro- 
gramme, for  door-plates  had  been  voted  vulgar  and  abandoned 
by  the  creme  de  la  creme ;  but  the  family  cards  had  been 
made  to  bear  all  the  blushing  honors  in  steel  engraving  and 
round-hand.  This  done,  the  requisite  jewelry  bought,  and 
some  other  little  arrangements  perfected  which  may  develop 
themselves  in  due  time,  the  lady  had  informed  Mr.  Brooks 
Cunninghame  that  both  the  health  and  the  dignity  of  tho 
family  required  summer  recreation,  and  dragged  him  away  on 
that  tour  of  which  w^c  have  the  privilege  of  witnessing  one  of 
the  progresses. 

Some  reference  has  been  made  to  the  array,  rather  gorgeous 
than  otherwise,  of  Miss  Marianna,  for  dusty  travel.  A  few 
words  which  had  passed  between  the  three  heads  of  tho 
family  at  one  of  the  Boston  hotels  that  morning,  may  give  a 
little  insight  into  the  philosophy  of  this  arrangement.  •  Mr. 
Brooks  Cunninghame,  yet  retaining  a  little  of  the  common- 
sense  of  his  dirt-cart  days,  had  ventured  to  suggest  that 
"  Mary  Ann  mought  wear  her  commoner  duds  to  ride  in,,  for 
thim  fineries  'ud  be  spiled  before  night  wid  the  dust  intirely  ;" 
and  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  alike  indignant  at  a  sugges- 
tion so  smacking  of  low  life  and  grieved  to  find  that  her 
husband  w^ould  persist  in  retaining  a  few  touches  of  the 
brogue  of  wdiich  she  had  cured  herself  and  her  children  so 
triumphantly, — had  answered  with  a  sort  of  verbal  two-edged 
Bword  that  did  fatal  execution  on  both  the  others  : 

"  Brooks  Cunninghame,  you'd  better  keep  your  mouth  shut 
if  you  can't  open  it  without  letting  out  some  of  that  low 
Irish  !  One  would  think  you  drove  a  dirt-'cart  yit !  And 
you,  my  dear" — to  Marianna  (the  mother  had  been  "  posting 
herself  in  some  of  the  phrases  of  "good  society,"  as  w^ell  as 
in  some  other  things  which  may  also  yet  develop  themselves) 
. — "you,  my  dear,  put  on  the  very  best  o'  them  things  that 
you've  got  I  Ain't  we  rich,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  We 
may  see  a  good  many  folks  to-day,  in  them  cars,  and  who 
knows  whether  you  mightn't  lose  a  beau  that'd  take  a  fancy 


232  THi:      COWARD. 

to  you,  if  you  went  slouchiu'  around  with  your  old  things  on  ? 
Dress  up,  my  dear  !" 

Mt.  Brooks  Cunninghame  had  succumbed ;  Miss  Marianna 
had  "  dressed  up,"  as  per  order  ;  and  collective  Shoddy  was 
thus  far  on  its  way,  without  accident,  towards  the  first  halt- 
ing-place in  the  grand  tour  of  the  mountains. 

But  what  of  the  observer  who  has  more  than  once  before 
been  mentioned,  and  who  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  front  seat, 
half  buried  under  the  voluminous  skirts  of  two  ladies  who 
have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  this  narration,  but  looking 
so  steadily  (people  who  have  habitually  ridden  in  those 
Concord  coaches  know  that  the  front  is  another  back,  and 
that  the  occupants  of  the  front  and  back  seats  face  each  other) 
— looking  so  steadily,  we  say,  at  every  permissible  oppor- 
tunity, into  the  sweet  face  of  Clara  Yanderlyn  ?  He  was  a 
man  of  apparently  thirty  years  of  age,  rather  tall  and  very 
vigorous-looking  even  if  slight,  with  curling  dark  hair,  almost 
or  quite  black,  and  worn  short,  the  face  finely  cut  and  showing 
no  beard  except  a  close,  full  moustache  of  raven  blackness, 
the  complexion  (brow  and  all,  as  could  be  noticed  when  he 
lifted  his  hat  from  his  head,  as  he  often  did,  for  coolness)  of 
such  a  dark  clear  brown  as  to  mark  him  of  Southern  birth  or 
blood,  clothes  of  thin  dark  gray  material,  with  a  round  tourist 
hat  and  a  duster,  the  small  hands  gloved  in  summer  silk,  and 
the  whole  appearance  and  manner  that  of  a  gentleman,  used 
to  good  society,  and  very  probably  professional.  He  had 
been  reading,  nearly  all  the  way  up  from  Worcester,  some 
of  the  other  passengers  noticed — though  it  must  be  confessed 
that  a  part  of  his  reading  had  been  over  the  top  of  the  book 
at  that  attractive  large  type  formed  by  a  pretty  human  face  ; 
and  no  blame  is  intended  to  be  cast  upon  Clara  Yanderlyn 
when  we  say  that  that  young  lady  had  more  than  once  met 
the  evidently  admiring  glance  of  so  fine-looking  a  man,  with 
the  little  tinge  of  color  that  was  becoming,  but  without  any 
expression  upon  her  face  or  any  thought  in  her  mind,  resent- 
ing  any   more    than    returning   an   admiration   which    she 


T  il  K      COWARD.  255 

believed  that  she  had  a  right  to  receive  and  any  gentleman 
to  pay  thus  respectfully.  He  had  spoken  but  seldom,  during 
the  ride,  in  such  a  way  that  any  person  then  present  had 
heard  him  ;  but  once  he  had  taken  (or  made)  occasion  to 
apologize  to  Miss  Yanderlyn  and  her  mother  for  being  thrown 
against  their  seat  by  the  motion  of  the  car  while  walking 
through  it,  on  the  rough  road  when  coming  up  from  Ply- 
mouth to  Wells  river;  and  his  few  words,  as  the  lady  re- 
marked, consorted  well  with  the  respectability  (to  say  the 
least)  of  his  appearance.  As  to  his  personality,  which  there 
did  not  seem  the  slightest  occasion  for  his  wishing  to  dis- 
guise, there  was  a  big  black  trunk  in  the  baggage-wagon 
following  behind  the  line  of  coaches,  and  a  small  satchel 
strapped  over  his  shoulder  as  he  rode  ;  and  the  first  bore  the 
initials  "  H.  T."  and  the  direction  '*'  Cincinnati." 

While  so  much  attention  has  been  paid  to  the  occupants 
of  that  single  coach,  leaving  the  others  and  even  the  noisy 
passengers  on  the  roof  of  this,  unnoticed,  the  vehicles  had 
been  buzzing  and  clattering  along  over  the  table-land  lying 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  past  the  little  hamlet  of  Fran- 
conia,  and  nearing  the  mountains  themselves.  A  glorious 
July  evening  it  was,  with  the  fiery  air  which  had  been  so 
oppressive  below  gradually  cooled  by  the  approach  to  the 
presence  of  the  monarchs,  and  the  smoke  from  the  fires 
in  the  woods  playing  fantastic  tricks  among  the  peaks,  and 
compensating  for  the  absence  of  the  clouds  which  sometimes 
enveloped  them.  Not  half  the  passengers  in  those  four 
stages  had  ever  seen  the  mountains  before  ;  and  not  one,  even 
of  those  accustomed  to  such  scenery,  but  felt  the  blood  beat- 
ing a  little  quicker  as  the  mountain  road  beyond  Franconia 
was  reached,  and  they  began  to  'experience  those  rapid 
ascents,  and  yet  more  rapid  descents,  which  accompany 
thence  all  the  way  to  the  Notch,  with  grand  old  woods  over- 
hanging, steep  and  sheer  ravines  at  the  side  of  the  road  that 
made  the  head  dizzy  in  looking,  reverential  glimpses  of  the 
awful  peaks  of  Lafayette  and  the  Cannon  frowning  ahead, 


234  THK      COWAKD. 

and  of  Washington,  grander  still,  towering  far  away  over  tbe 
White  range,  and  with  all  the  other  accompaniments  of  the 
finest  mountain  scenery  on  the  Atlantic  coast  of  the  American 
continent.  There  was  quite  enough,  indeed,  to  engage  the 
attention  of  any  except  the  most  blase  and  ennuyee  traveller, 
in  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery  and  the  excitement  of  being 
galloped  in  rocking,  lumbering,  four-horse  coaches,  down 
declivities  of  road  which  would  have  made  a  driver  in  any 
ordinar}^  hill-country  draw  tight  rein  and  creep  down  with  a 
heavy  foot  on  the  brake. 

Not  a  few  nervous  passengers,  first  or  last,  dashing  up 
and  down  the  slopes  of  the  White  Mountain  roads,  have 
been  more  or  less  frightened,  and  wished  that  they  could  be 
once  more  on  terra  firma  without  incurring  the  penalty  of  a 
laugh  at  their  cowardice  ;  and  in  the  present  instance  this 
little  bit  of  locomotion  was  not  to  bo  allowed  to  pass  without 
an  adventure. 

Half  an  hour  from  the  foot  of  the  mountain  the  coach  went 
rapidly  up  a  sharp  ascent  in  the  road,  then  dashed  down  again 
at  full  gallop,  striking  one  of  those  necessary  nuisances  known 
as  "  breakwaters"  when  a  few  yards  from  the  top,  with  a 
shock  that  sent  the  coach-body  leaping  on  its  leathern  jacks 
like  a  yawl-boat  in  a  heavy  surf,  made  some  of  the  outsiders 
on  the  top  shout  and  hold  on  merrily  to  keep  from  being 
whirled  off  into  one  of  the  side-ravines,  and  created  such  a 
state  of  affairs  inside  the  vehicle,  generally,  as  effectually 
broke  up  the  monotony.  That  shock  drove  the  head  of  Mrs. 
Tanderlyn  back  against  the  leathern  cushions  with  a  force 
seriously  damaging  to  the  crown  of  her  bonnet,  brought  a 
slight  scream  from  Clara,  who  was  frightened  for  the  instant, 
made  the  troublesome  Master  Brooks  Brooks  yell  and  dash  a 
dirty  hand  into  the  dress  of  each  of  the  ladies  who  had  the 
honor  of  the  same  seat,  and  elicited  from  Mrs.  Brooks  Cun- 
ninghame  and  her  husband  one  of  those  brief  but  very  signifi- 
cant marital  displays  which  were  no  doubt  afterwards  to 
edify  so  many.     Whether  the  lady  had  ascertained  that  fash- 


THE      COWAKD.  235 

ionable  people  must  always  fall  and  faint  under  any  sudden 
excitement,  or  whether  the  shock  really  frightened  as  well  as 
unseated  her,  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence :  certain  it  is  that 
she  at  that  juncture  threw  up  her  hands  and  rolled  up  her 
eyes,  gave  one  scream  that  degenerated  into  a  groan,  rolled 
from  her  seat  and  subsided  into  the  bottom  "of  the  coach, 
under  the  feet  of  "  II.  T.,"  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  fit  of  somo 
description.  Miss  Marianna,  really  alarmed,  with  the  affec- 
tionate if  not  classic  words,  "  Oh,  mammy  !"  made  a  grab  at 
that  lady,  clutching  the  back  of  her  hat  and  tearing  it  from 
the  head  it  crowned,  while  Master  Brooks  Brooks  changed 
his  yell  into  a  howl  and  Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame  stooped 
down,  terror  in  his  face  and  his  hands  feeling  around  at  the 
bottom  of  the  vehicle  for  any  portion  of  what  had  been  his 
wife,  with  the  affectionate  but  not  politic  inquiry:  ''Is  it  kilt 
ye  are,  Bridget  ?" 

Not  politic  ? — no,  certainly  not !  A  stronger  word  might 
be  applied  without  risk  to  the  unfortunate  expression. 
Among  the  changes  in  family  polity  not  before  indicated, 
had  been  an  indignant  throwing  over  of  her  very  honest 
name  of  ''Bridget"  by  the  wife  of  the  horse-contractor, 
and  the  adoption  of  "  Julia"  in  its  stead.  More  than  one 
curtain-lecture  had  poor  Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame  endured, 
before  leaving  New  York,  on  the  necessity  of  avoiding  any 
blunder  in  that  regard,  when  they  should  be  "away  from 
home" ;  and  he  had  not  escaped  without  severe  drill  and 
many  promises  of  perfection  in  his  part.  And  now  to  have  for- 
gotten the  adopted  "Julia"  and  used  the  tell-tale  "Bridget'^ 
at  the  very  moment  of  the  family's  entering  upon  their  first 
essay  in  fashionable  watering-place  life,  was  really  a  little 
too  much  for  patience  not  entirely  angelic. 

Both  the  poets  and  the  romancers  tell  of  cases  in  which 
some  word  of  heart-broken  affection,  uttered  at  the  instant 
when  the  death-film  was  stealing  over  the  eyes  of  the  beloved 
one,  has  had  power  to  strike  the  dulled  sense  and  call  back 
for  a  moment  the  fleeting  life  when  it  had  escaped  far  beyond 


236  THE      COWARD. 

the  reach  of  any  other  sound.  Something  of  the  same  cha- 
racter— not  quite  so  romantic,  perhaps,  but  quite  as  real, — 
was  developed  in  the  present  instance.  The  woman  may 
have  been  falling  into  an  actual  faint ;  but  if  so,  that  offen- 
sive word  pierced  through  the  gathering  mists  of  insensi- 
bility, and  she  crawled  out  from  the  entanglement  of  legs 
before  any  effectual  aid  could  be  afforded  her,  and  with  such 
a  look  of  contempt  and  hatred  burning  full  upon  her  unfortu- 
nate husband  that  he  must  have  felt  for  the  moment  as  if 
placed  directly  under  the  lens  of  a  sun-glass  at  focus.  Mr. 
Brooks  Cunninghame  shrank  into  his  number  eleven  patent- 
leathers,  and  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  "  swatted"  herself 
(there  is  no  other  word  in  or  out  of  the  language  that  will 
quite  so  well  express  the  act)  down  on  the  seat  with  an  air 
that  implied  a  wish  for  some  one's  head  being  beneath  her  at 
that  juncture.  Her  glance  had  not  at  all  softened,  nor  had 
"  H.  T."  ceased  looking  out  of  the  window  or  Clara  Yander- 
lyn  (behind  her)  yet  taken  her  handkerchief  from  her  mouth, 
when  the  female  Cunninghame  said,  in  what  she  thought 
very  honeyed  accents  : 

"  Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  I  wish  you  would  find  some 
other  time  to  go  and  call  me  nicknames,  than  when  I  am 
jolted  out  of  ray  seat  in  that  way  and  a'most  dead  !" 

The  stroke  of  policy  was  a  fine  one,  and  even  the  thick  head 
of  Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame  recognized  the  necessity  of  fol- 
lowing it  up — an  act  which  he  performed  thus  gracefully  and 
with  a  look  intended  for  one  of  the  staring  ladies  on  the 
front  seat  : 

"Yes,  mim,  her  name  isn't  Bridget  at  all  at  all,  but  Julia. 
It's  only  a  bit  of  a  way  I  have  of  jokin'  wid  her,  mim  !" 

This  was  satisfactory,  of  course — absolutely  conclusive ; 
and  so  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  grew  mollified  by  degrees  ; 
the  redness  which  had  come  into  the  face  of  Miss  Marianna 
gradually  faded  out;  Master  Bra|)ks  Brooks  Cunninghame 
took  occasion  to  manifest  his  filial  fondness  by  reaching  over 
and  hugging  his  mother  with  hands  just  re-coated  with  candy 


THK      COWARD.  237 

dug  out  of  his  capacious  pocket;  and  the  Concord  coach, 
with  its  consorts,  rolled  and  jolted  and  swayed  along,  up  and 
down  the  mountain  road  to  its  destination. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Landing  at  the  Profile  House — Halstead  Rowan  and 
Gymnastics — How  that  person  saw  Clara  Yanderlyn 

AND    BECAME   A    RiVAL   OF  "  H.   T." — ThE    FuLL   MoON   IN 

THE  Notch — Trodden  Toes,  a  Name,  a  Yoice,  and  a 
Rencontre — Margaret  Hayley  and  Capt.  Hector  Coles 
— The  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  by  Moonlight,  and  a 
Mystery. 

Spite  of  the  sometimes  rapid  speed,  the  toil  up  the  moun- 
tain had  been  long  and  tedious ;  and  dusk  was  very  nearly 
falling  and  the  chill  of  the  coming  evening  was  sufficient  to 
induce  the  drawing  close  of  mantles  and  wrappers  that  only 
two  hours  before  had  been  reckoned  an  incumbrance, — when 
the  coaches  with  their  loads  broke  out  from  the  overhanging 
woods  on  a  steep  down-grade,  the  passengers  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Echo  Lake  lying  like  a  sheet  of  molten  silver  under  the 
evening  calm,  and  the  whole  cortege  swept  down  at  a  gallop 
and  with  cracking  of  whips,  to  the  broad,  level  plateau  lying 
before  the  Profile  House  in  the  Franconia  Notch. 

Two  of  the  coaches  had  been  in  advance  of  that  to  which 
the  attention  of  the  reader  has  been  particularly  directed,  and 
still  other  coaches  had  just  come  in  from  Plymouth,  the  Glen 
and  the  Crawford  ;  so  that  when  they  drew  up  to  alight  the 
long  piazza  of  the  Profile  was  filled  with  sojourners  satisfying 
their  curiosity  or  looking  out  for  fresh  arrivals ;  and  coach- 
men, servants  and  every  employee  of  the  establishment, 
were  busy  hauling  down   from  the  racks  and  boots  where 


2i58  THE      CO  W  A  li  D . 

thej  had  been  stowed,  immense  piles  of  trunks,  valises  and 
every  description  of  ba,2:gage  that  had  not  been  entrusted  to 
the  van  yet  lumbering  behind.  Landlord  Taft  and  superin- 
tendent Jennings  were  alert  and  busy;  old  comers  were 
curious  as  to  the  number  and  nature  of  new  arrivals ;  new 
comers  were  glancing  momentarily  at  the  glorious  scenery 
and  anxiously  inquiring  every  thing  of  everybody  who  knew 
no  more  of  the  things  inquired  about  than  did  the  askers 
themselves.  All  was  charming  bustle — delightful  confusion  : 
one  of  those  peculiar  scenes  connected  with  summer  travel 
and  watering-place  life,  w^hich  furnish  the  very  best  of  op- 
portunities for  study  to  the  quiet  observer. 

The  coach  door  had  been  opened  and  all  the  inside  passen- 
gers handed  out,  before  the  merry  party  from  the  roof  made 
any  attempt  at  getting  down.  Peal  after  peal  of  hearty 
laughter  went  up  from  that  outside  division  of  the  vehicle  ; 
and  evidently  the  party  there  assembled  had  reached  the 
Profile  before  achieving  the  end  of  the  jests  and  story-telling 
in  which  they  had  been  engaged.  They  had  already  attracted 
some  attention  from  the  piazza,  and  one  boarding-school  miss 
had  been  appealed  to  by  her  eye-glassed  swain  in  attendance, 
to  "  heah  those  awful  vulgah  fellahs  !" — when  the  laughter 
ceased,  and  one  of  the  roof-passengers  made  a  sudden  spring 
from  that  elevation,  over  the  heads  of  half  a  dozen  of  those 
standing  on  the  ground,  and  came  safely  to  his  feet  with  a 
jerk  which  would  have  laid  up  a  less  perfect  physical  man 
for  a  week  and  completely  shaken  out  the  false  teeth  from  the 
mouth  of  any  victim  of  a  dentist. 

The  rapid  man  was  followed  by  his  companions,  Frank 
Yanderlyn  included  among  the  number ;  but  they  all  seemed 
to  choose  the  more  popular  mode  of  getting  down,  by  the  aid 
of  steps  and  braces. 

"Pretty  well  done,  Rowan  !"  exclaimed  one  of  the  others 
as  he  himself  reached  the  ground.     "  Broke  any  thing  ?" 

"  Xo,  nothing — except,"  and  at  that  moment  his  eye  caught  the 
forms  and  faces  of  Miss  Clara  Yanderlvn  and  her  mother,  who 


THE      COWARD,  289 

were  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  piazza,  waiting  while  Frank 
descended  and  made  some  arrangement  for  the  disposition  of 
their  baggage.  "IT.  T.,"  of  the  coach-load,  was  standing 
within  a  few  feet  of  them,  his  little  satchel  still  strapped  over 
his  shoulder  and  his  eyes  scarcely  wandering  at  all  from  the 
woman  whom  they  had  scanned  so  long  and  well  during  the 
journey  by  rail.  But  he  had  glanced  around,  with  the  others, 
at  the  noise  made  by  the  singular  descent ;  and  his  eye  met 
that  of  the  man  who  had  been  called  Rowan,  as  the  latter 
made  the  discovery  of  mother  and  daughter.  It  was  but  a 
lightning  flash  that  Rowan  gave  or  the  stranger  detected,  but 
few  glances  of  any  human  eye  have  ever  expressed  more 
within  the  same  period.  He  evidently  saw  the  young  girl 
for  the  first  time,  at  that  moment ;  and  quite  as  evidently  he 
drank  in  at  that  one  glimpse  the  full  charm  of  her  beautyand 
goodness.  That  was  not  all  :  in  the  one  glance,  too,  he  ap- 
parently measured  her  wealth  and  social  position— saw  and 
reckoned  up  the  proud  woman  standing  beside  her— then 
took,  it  is  probable,  an  introspective  view  of  himself  and  his 
own  surroundings,  and  found  time  to  realize  the  utter  hope- 
lessness of  that  impulse  which  for  the  tithe  of  a  moment  he 
must  have  felt  stirring  within  him. 

Perhaps  half-a-dozen  seconds  had  elapsed  before  he  con- 
cluded the  answer  he  had  begun.  "  Xo,  nothing— except— 
my  heart !"  He  had  begun  to  speak  in  a  light,  gay,  off-hand 
manner :  he  concluded  in  a  low,  sad  voice,  full  alike  of  music 
and  melancholy. 

"H.  T."  had  been  observing  him  very  closely  during  that 
brief  space  of  time,  as  had  nearly  all  the  other  spectators, 
their  notice  attracted  by  his  reckless  mode  of  alighting.  He 
was  apparently  about  thirty  years  of  age,  a  little  less  than  six 
feet  high— jlerhaps  five  feet  eleven  ;  with  a  form  undeniably 
stout,  but  rounded  like  a  reed  and  as  elastic  as  whalebone. 
His  hands  were  soft  and  womanish  in  their  contour,  though 
they  were  rather  large,  nut-brown  in  color,  and  had  evidently 
felt,  as  had  his  face,  the  meridian  sun.     His  feet  were  almost 


240  THE      CO  W  A  R  D. 

singularly  small  for  so  large  a  man — highly  arched  and  springy. 
His  face  and  head,  as  he  the  moment  after  removed  his  hat, 
were  capable  of  attracting  attention  in  any  company.  The 
face  was  a  little  broad  and  heavily  moulded  ;  the  cheek-bones 
prominent  and  the  nose  slightly  aquiline  ;  the  eyes  dark, 
dreamy  and  lazy  ;  the  brow  fair,  and  above  it  clustering  dark, 
short,  soft  hair,  curled,  but  so  delicate  in  texture  that  it  waved 
like  silk  floss  with  the  veriest  breath.  The  mouth  would  have 
been,  the  observer  might  have  thought,  heavy  and  a  little  sen- 
sual, had  it  not  been  hidden  away  by  the  thick  and  curling 
dark  moustache  which  he  wore  without  other  beard.  Only 
one  other  feature  need  be  named — a  chin  rather  broad  and 
square  and  showing  a  very  slight  depression  of  the  bone  in 
the  centre — such  as  has  marked  a  singular  description  of  men 
for  many  an  hundred  years.  It  needed  a  second  glance  to 
see  that  a  broad,  heavy  scar,  thoroughly  healed,  commenced 
at  the  left  cheek-bone  and  traversed  below  the  ear  until  lost 
in  the  thick  hair  at  the  base  of  the  neck.  Such  was  the  pic- 
ture this  man  presented — a  contradictory  one  in  some  respects, 
but  evidencing  great  strength,  power  and  agility,  and  yet  more 
than  a  suspicion  of  intellectuality  and  refinement.  A  close 
and  habitual  observer  of  men  does  not  often  err  in  "  placing" 
one  whom  he  may  happen  to  meet,  even  at  first  sight, — after 
a  few  seconds  of  careful  examination ;  but  the  keenest  might 
have  been  puzzled  to  decide  what  was  that  man's  station  in 
life,  his  profession,  or  even  his  character.  Any  one  must  have 
been  in  the  main  favorably  impressed  :  beyond  that  point 
little  could  possibly  have  been  imagined  by  the  most  daring. 
A  small  black  trunk  came  off  the  top  of  the  coach  at  about 
the  time  that  "  H.  T.,"'  who  seemed  to  be  bargaining  for  a 
rival  at  that  early  period,  had  concluded  his  inspection  ;  and 
there  was  not  much  difficulty  in  connecting  the  name  and 
address  painted  in  white  on  the  end  with  the  appellation  by 
which  the  stranger  had  the  moment  before  been  designated. 
That  name  and  address  read  :  "  Halstead  Rowan,  Chicago, 
Illinois." 


THK      COWARD.  241 

Two  men  appeared  to  be  travelling  in  company  with  Rowan  ; 
one  a  man  of  something  beyond  his  own  age— the  other  five 
or  six  years  younger  ;  both  respectable  but  by  no  means  afflu- 
ent  in  appearance.  All  were  well  dressed  and  gentlemanly 
in  aspect;  but  neither  Rowan  nor  either  of  his  companions 
gave  the  impression  of  what  might  be  designated  as  the  "  firi^t 
circles  of  society,"  even  in  the  great  grain-metropolis  of  the 
West. 

*'H.  T.,"  the  observer,  had  fixed  his  eyes  so  closely  on  the 
male  party  in  that  singular  meeting,  that  he  probably  lost  the 
answering  expression   of  the  lady's  face  and  did  not  know 
whether  or  not  she  had  returned  that  glance  of  wondering 
interest.     Something  like  disappointment  at  that  lost  oppor* 
tunity  may  have  been  the  cause  of  his  biting  his  lip  a  little 
nervously  as  he   took  his  way,  with  the  rest  of  the  new- 
comers, into  the  hall  and  reception-room,  waiting  opportunity 
for  the  booking  of  names  and  the  assignment  ^of  chambers. 
Some  of  those  in  waiting  no  doubt  found  the  tedium  mate- 
rially  diminished  by  finding  themselves,  in  tlie  reception-room, 
at  that  close  of  a  blazing  day  of  July,  standing  or  sitting  with 
a  decidedly  grateful  feeling  before  a  quarter-of-a-cord  of  Wrchen 
wood,  blazing  away  in  the  open  fire-place  with  that  peculiar 
warmth  and  hearty  geniality  so  little  known  to  this  coal-burn- 
ing age,  but  so  well  remembered  by  those  who  knew  the  old 
baronial  halls  of  republican  America  in  a  time  long  passed 
ciway. 

Xot  many  minutes  after  the  rencontre  that  has  been  de- 
scribed, the  crowd  had  vanished  from  the  piazza  of  the  Profile 
House,  the  coaches  had  driven  away,  the  baggage  was  being 
rapidly  removed  within  doors,  and  the  tired  and  hungry  new- 
comers were  booked  for  rooms  and  clearing  away  the  soil  and 
dust  of  travel,  preparatory  to  supper.  Soon  the  crockerv  and 
cutlery  jingled  in  the  long  dining-room,  and  the  flakv  tea- 
biscuits  steamed  for  those  who  hurried  down  to  catch  them  in 
their  full  perfection. 

It  was  a  desultory  supper  and  a  somewhat  hurried  one.  for 
15 


242  1  li  Jbi       Co  W  A  K  L> . 

the  moon-rise  was  coming — that  rise  of  the  full  moon  which 
so  many  had  promised  themselves,  and  for  which,  indeed,  not 
a  few  of  the  arrivals  of  that  evening  had  timed  their  visit  to 
the  mountains.  Then,  hunger  has  but  little  curiosity,  and  sur- 
veys and  recognitions  were  both  waited  for  until  the  broader 
light  and  greater  leisure  of  the  morning ;  and  probably  of  the 
dozens  of  old  residents  (a  week  is  "  old  residence"  at  a  water- 
iug-place,  be  it  remembered,  and  a  fortnight  confers  all  the 
privileges  of  the  habitue) — probably  of  the  dozens  of  old 
residents  and  new-comers  who  had  acquaintances  among  the 
opposite  class,  not  two  found  time  or  thought  for  seeking  out 
familiar  faces  during  that  period  when  the  sharpened  appetite 
was  so  notably  in  the  ascendant. 

"  The  moonlight  is  coming  :  come  out,  all  of  you  who  care 
more  for  scenery  than  stulSng  !"  said  a  high,  shrill  voice,  after 
a  time  had  elapsed  which  would  scarcely  have  begun  the 
meal  under  ordinary  circumstances.  It  was  an  elderly  man 
with  white  hair  and  white  side-whiskers,  an  old  habitue  of 
the  house  and  therefore  a  privileged  character,  who  spoke, 
pulling  out  his  watch  and  at  once  rising  from  his  seat.  He 
was  followed  by  more  than  half  those  at  table,  and  would 
have  been  followed  especially  by  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame, 
who  had  somewhere  learned  that  fashion  and  a  rage  for 
moonlight  had  a  mysterious  connection, — but  for  the  insatia- 
ble hunger  of  Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame  himself,  who  was  en- 
gaged in  mortal  combat  with  a  formidable  piece  of  steak  and 
a  whole  pile  of  biscuits,  and  who  outraged  Mrs.  Brooks 
Cunninghame  by  declaring,  sotto  voce,  that  "  he'd  be  some- 
thing-or-othered  if  he'd  lave  his  supper  until  he  was  done,  for 
any  moonlight  or  other  something-or-othered  thing  in  the 
wurruld  !" — and  the  obstrepcrousness  of  Master  Brooks 
Brooks  Cunninghame,  who  was  up  to  his  eyes  in  three  kinds 
of  preserves  and  bade  fair  to  stick  permanently  fast  to  the 
table  through  the  agency  of  those  glutinous  compounds. 

Out  on  the  piazza  and  the  broad  plateau  in  front  of  it,  the 
visitors  at  the   Profile  gathered,  to  see  what   is  not  often 


THE      COWARD.  243 

vouchsafed  to  the  most  devoted  of  nature-lovers — the  rising* 
of  the  full  moon  in  the  mountains.  Those  who  are  familiar 
with  the  Franconia  Notch  well  know  how  the  mountains 
around  the  Profile  always  seem  to  draw  closer  after  sunset, 
and  how  the  frowning  cliffs  seem  to  form  insurmountable 
barriers  between  them  and  the  outer  world,  making  it  doubt- 
ful to  the  bewildered  thought  whether  there  is  indeed  any 
(.'j>Tess  from  that  cool  paradise  of  S'ummer — whether  or  not 
they  can  ride  away  at  will  and  look  again  upon  green  fields 
and  flashing  streams  and  the  faces  of  those  they  love.  Ana 
they  well  know  that  moonrise  there,  over  those  encircling 
cliffs,  is  not  the  moonrise  of  the  lower  country,  with  the  orb 
throwing  its  broad  beams  of  light  at  once  wide  over  the 
world,  but  an  actual  peeping  down  from  heaven  of  a  fair  and 
genial  spirit  that  deigns  for  the  time  to  pour  welcome  radi- 
ance into  an  abode  of  solitude  and  darkness.  The  spectacle, 
then,  is  one  to  be  sought  and  remembered  ;  and  as  storms 
habitually  beat  around  those  mountain  tops  and  fog  and  mist 
quite  divide  the  time  with  fair  weather  in  the  valleys,  the 
tourist  is  mad  or  emotionless  who  allows  the  cloudless  full 
moon  to  come  up  without  catching  its  smile  on  cheek  and 
brow. 

The  intense  blue  of  the  eastern  sky  w^as  already  gone  when 
the  anxious  groups  clustered  in  front  of  the  great  white  cara- 
vanserai, and  the  stars  began  to  glimmer  paler  in  that  direc- 
tion. There  was  not  a  fleck  of  cloud,  not  a  shadow  of  mist, 
to  prevent  the  rounded  orb,  when  it  came  up,  flooding  the 
whole  gorge  with  the  purest  of  liquid  silver.  The  winds 
were  still  as  if  they  w^aited  with  finger  on  lip  for  the  pageant ; 
and  the  shrill  scream  of  a  young  eagle  that  broke  out  for  an 
instant  from  one  of  the  eyries  tinder  the  brow  of  Eagle  Cliff 
and  then  died  trembling  away  down  the  valley,  seemed  like 
profanation.  Conversation  was  hushed,  among  all  that  vary- 
ing and  even  discordant  crowd,  as  if  there  might  be  power  in 
a  profane  word  to  check  the  wheeling  of  the  courses  of 
nature.     The  orient  began  to  be  flushed  with  that  trembling 


244  THK      COWARD. 

light,  and  glints  of  it  touched  the  dark  pines  on  the  brow  of 
the  cliff,  a  mile  away.  Then  that  light  beyond  the  cliffs 
deepened  and  the  dark  pines  grew  still  darker  as  fully  re- 
lieved against  it.  Then  at  last,  as  they  watched  with  hushed 
breath,  a  rim  of  silver  seemed  suddenly  to  have  been  set  as 
an  arch  on  the  very  brow  of  the  mountain,  and  slowly  the  full 
orb  rolled  into  view.  As  it  heaved  up,  a  broad,  full  circle  of 
glittering  and  apparently  dripping  silver,  it  threw  out  the 
trees  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain  into  such  bold  relief  as  if 
a  lightning  flash  had  literally  been  burning  behind  them. 
There  was  one  giant  old  pine,  no  doubt  an  hundred  feet  in 
height,  so  far  away  on  the  bold  crest  of  Eagle  Cliff  that  it 
seemed  to  be  only  a  toy  tree  of  three  inches  ;  and  this  was 
thrown  against  the  very  centre  of  the-  moon,  every  gnarled 
limb  and  pendant  branch  as  plain  to  the  eye  as  if  it  hung 
within  a  stone's  throw,  a  dead  pigmy  of  the  same  family 
shooting  up  its  ragged  point  not  far  distant,  and  a  tangled 
wilderness  of  broken  trees  and  scraggy  branches  filling  the 
remainder  of  the  circle.  Then,  the  moment  after,  the  moon 
heaved  slowly  up  beyond  the  trees,  they  fell  back  into  dark- 
ness, and  the  broad  glow  streamed  full  into  the  faces  of  the 
gazers  and  flooded  the  whole  valley  with  light.  The  great 
spectacle  of  the  month  had  been  exhibited  to  hundreds  of  ad- 
miring eyes,  and  the  full  moon  of  July  shed  its  broad  glory 
like  a  blessing  upon  the  Franconia. 

It  was  at  the  moment  when  the  pageant  was  just  conclud- 
ing and  exclamations  of  pleasure  breaking  from  a  hundred 
lips,  that  "  H.  T."  (who  has  not  as  yet  furnished  us  data  for 
any  fuller  revelation  of  his  name),  standing  at  some  distance 
out  on  the  plateau  from  the  piazza,  and  stepping  suddenly 
backward  to  observe  a  particular  effect  of  the  light  among  the 
trees  on  the  cliff,  trod  upon  the  foot  of  a  lady  immediately  be- 
hind him  and  nearly  overthrew  her.  He  turned  immediately, 
with  a  word  of  apology,  at  the  same  time  that  a  gentleman 
near  her,  who  seemed  to  be  in  her  immediate  company, 
sprang  to  prevent  her  possible  fall,  venting  meanwhile  on  the 


THE      COWARD.  245 

presumed  awkwardness  of  the  aggressor  a  word  of  ill-dis- 
guised petulance  : — 

''You  should  be  a  little  more  careful,  sir,  I  think,  how  you 
step  upon  ladies'  feet  and  risk  hurting  them  seriously." 

"  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  !"  was  the  reply.  "  Certainly 
I  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  lady  immediately  behind 
me,  and — " 

The  lady  gave  a  sudden  start,  caught  a  quick  glance  at 
the  speaker,  and  then  recovered  her  equanimity  so  suddenly 
that  perhaps  not  two  of  all  the  company  observed  the  mo- 
mentary agitation ;  while  the  gentleman  interrupted  the 
attempted  apology,  not  too  politely,  with — 

*'  Is  your  foot  much  injured,  Miss  Hayley  ?•' 

The  answer  made  by  the  lady  was  in  the  negative,  and  in 
a  tone  that,  though  it  trembled  a  little,  proved  her  less  petu- 
lant than  her  companion.  But  it  is  possible  that  "  H.  T.," 
as  he  has  been  known,  did  not  pay  that  answer  any  attention 
whatever.  As  he  turned  he  must  certainly  have  seen  the 
lady  more  or  less  distinctly  in  the  moonlight,  and  yet  had 
manifested  no  surprise  at  what  he  saw  ;  but  when  the  name 
was  mentioned  he  gave  a  start  that  must  have  been  notice- 
able by  any  acute  observer.  Had  he  really  not  noticed  her 
before  his  attention  wassailed  by  the  mention  of  the  name  ? 
or  was  the  face  one  which  he  did  not  recognize  while  the 
name  bore  a  talisman  that  commanded  all  his  interest  ?  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  he  saw  the  lady  now,  distinctly ;  and  equally 
certain  is  it  that  the  face  was  the  same  which  has  met  the 
gaze  of  the  reader,  a  month  before,  on  the  piazza  of  the 
house  at  West  Philadelphia. 

Margaret  Hayley,  in  very  truth,  dressed  so  darkly  that  at 
the  first  glance  her  attire  might  almost  have  been  taken  for 
black,  and  with  not  even  one  ornament  to  sparkle  in  the 
moonbeams,  while  that  peculiarity  of  her  raiment  was  made 
more  notable  by  a  light  summer  scarf  or  "cloud,"  of  white 
berlin,  thrown  over  her  head  to  guard  it  from  the  night  air, 
in  a  fashion  somewhat    oriental.      Her    proud,    statuesque 


246  THE      COWARD 

figure  rose  erect  as  ever ;  and  the  same  stately  perfection  of 
womanhood  looked  out  from  her  dark  eyes  and  beamed  upon 
her  pure,  high  brow,  that  had  shone  there  before  the  falling 
of  that  blow  which  had  so  truly  been  the  turning  point  of 
her  life.  The  cheek  may  have  been  a  shade  thinner  than  a 
month  before  ;  and  there  may  have  been  a  shadow  under  the 
eyes,  too  marked  for  her  heyday  of  youth  and  health  ;  but  if 
so  the  moonlight  was  not  enough  of  a  telltale  to  make  the 
revelation. 

The  gentleman  who  had  so  promptly  attended  to  the  com- 
fort of  Margaret  Hayley,  an.d  who  did  not  seem  averse  to 
picking  up  a  quarrel  on  her  behalf,  was  dark  haired  and  dark 
bearded,  round-faced  and  rather  fine-looking  than  otherwise, 
a  little  above  the  middle  height,  and  wearing  the  uniform  of 
a  Captain  on  staff  service.  So  much  the  eye  of  "  H.  T." 
took  in  at  once,  and  he  seemed  to  keep  his  attention  some- 
what anxiously  on  the  two  as  the  moment  after  they  turned 
away  and  walked  back  towards  the  piazza,  as  if  he  would 
gladly  have  caught  some  additional  word  conveying  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  officer's  personality.  Nothing  more  was  said, 
however,  that  could  afford  such  a  clue  if  one  he  really  de- 
sired ;  and  but  a  little  time  had  elapsed  when  another  subject 
of  excitement  arose,  calculated  to  interest  many  of  the  hun- 
dreds who  had  already  become  partially  drunk  with  the 
glory  of  the  moonlight. 

*'  The  moon  is  high  enough,  now  :  let  us  see  how  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountain  looks  when  his  face  is  silvered  !"  said 
some  one  in  the  crowd ;  and  the  happy  suggestion  was  at 
once  acted  upon.  There  were  quite  enough  old  habitues 
present  to  supply  guides  and  chaperons  for  the  new-comers  ; 
and  in  a  moment  fifty  or  more  of  the  visitors  went  trooping 
away  down  the  white  sandy  road  through  the  glen  and  under 
the  sweeping  branches  among  which  the  moonbeams  peeped 
and  played  so  coquettishly. 

Two  or  three  windings  of  the  road,  two  or  three  slight 
ascents  and  descents  in  elevation  :  !=ome  one  said  :  "  Here  is 


THE      COWARD.  247 

the  best  view;"  and  the  whole  company  paused  in  their 
scattering  march.  A  sudden  break,  opening  upon  a  dark 
quiet  little  lake  or  tarn,  was  to  be  seen  through  the  trees  to 
the  right ;  and  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  hanging  sheer  over 
the  gulf  of  more  than  two  thousand  feet  sweeping  down 
towards  the  foot  of  the  Cannon — there,  with  the  massive 
iron  face  staring  full  into  the  moonlight  that  touched  nose 
and  cheek  and  brow  with  so  strange  and  doubtful  a  light 
that  the  unpractised  eye  could  not  trace  the  outlines,  while 
the  accustomed  could  see  them  almost  as  plainly  as  in  the 
sunlight — there  loomed  the  awful  countenance  of  the  Old 
Man  of  the  Mountain.  Some  there  were  in  that  company, 
familiar  with  every  changing  phase  of  that  most  marvellous 
freak  of  nature,  who  thought  that  grand  as  it  had  before 
seemed  to  them  when  the  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens  and 
the  dark  outline  relieved  against  the  bright  western  sky,  it 
was  yet  grander  then,  in  the  still,  doubtful,  solemu  moonlight. 
Among  those  who  had  gone  down  to  the  edge  of  the  little 
Old  Man's  Mirror  for  this  view,  were  two  of  the  sterner  sex 
who  happened  to  be  without  ladies  under  charge  and  to  be  sep- 
arated from  any  other  company.  Directly,  walking  near  each 
other,  they  fell  together  and  exchanged  casual  remarks  on  tho 
beauty  of  the  night  and  the  peculiarities  of  different  points  of 
scenery.  They  were  the  two  who  had  first  seen  each  other 
at  the  moment  of  alighting  at  the  Profile  little  more  than  an 
hour  before — "  H.  T."  of  the  initials  and  the  lady's  smashed 
foot,  and  Halstead  Rowan  of  the  gymnastic  spring  from  the 
coach-top.  The  first  glance  had  told  to  each  that  there  was 
something  of  mark  in  the  other ;  and  under  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  that  night  they  drifted  together,  without 
introduction  except  such  as  each  could  furnish  for  himself, 
but  not  likely  to  separate  again  without  a  much  more  inti- 
mate acquaintance, — just  as  many  other  waifs  and  fragments, 
floating  down  the  great  stream  of  life,  have  been  thrown  into 
.  what  seemed  accidental  collision  by  a  chance  eddy,  and  yet 
never  separated   again  until  each  had   exercised  upon  tho 


248  THE      COWAKD. 

other  an  influence  materially  controlling  the  whole  after 
course  of  destiny. 

Eventually  the  two,  both  rapid  walkers,  had  gone  faster 
than  the  rest  and  become  the  leaders  of  the  impromptu  pro- 
cession to  the  shrine  of  the  Old  Man,  so  that  when  the  halt 
was  called  they  were  standing  together  and  apart  from  the 
others,  forty  or  fifty  feet  further  down  the  glen  and  where 
they  had  perhaps  a  yet  better  view  of  the  profile  than  any 
of  the  company.  Both  were  dear  lovers  of  nature,  if  the 
word  "  reverent''  could  not  indeed  be  added  to  the  apprecia- 
tion of  both ;  and  standing  together  there,  even  in  silence, 
the  intuitive  knowledge  of  the  inner  life  of  each  seemed  to 
bring  them  more  closely  together  than  introductions  and  a 
better  knowledge  of  antecedents  could  possibly  have  done. 
Then  the  crowd  tired  of  gazing  and  moved  back  towards  the 
house,  leaving  the  two  standing  together  and  probably  sup- 
posing themselves  alone.  They  were  not  alone,  in  fact ;  for 
under  the  shadow  of  the  trees  to  the  left,  half  way  between 
the  spot  where  the  new  friends  were  standing  and  that  which 
had  been  occupied  by  the  body  of  the  visitors,  were  three 
persons  continuing  the  same  lingering  gaze.  These  were  the 
officer  and  two  ladies  who  each  found  the  support  of  an  arm 
— Margaret  Hayley  and  her  mother,  the  latter  of  whom,  it 
would  thus  seem,  was  also  at  the  Profile  under  the  escort  of 
the  military  gentleman.  Unobserved  themselves,  they  had 
the  two  men  in  full  moonlight  below  and  could  see  them 
almost  as  well  as  in  the  broader  light  of  day. 

"  Who  are  they,  Captain  Coles  ?  Anybody  we  know  ?" 
asked  the  elder  lady,  speaking  so  low  that  the  sound  did  not 
creep  down  to  the  two  gazers. 

"Both  new-comers,  I  think,"  answered  the  military  gentle- 
man. "Yes,  they  both  came  in  to-night;  and  one  of  them, 
Margaret,  is  the  booby  who  stepped  on  your  foot  a  little 
while  ago,  and  whom  I  shall  yet  take  occasion  to  kick  before 
he  leaves  the  mountains  if  he  does  not  learn  to  keep  out  of 
people's  way." 


THE      COWARD.  249 

*'  I  beg  you  will  not  allow  yourself  to  get  into  difficulty  on 
account  of  that  trilling  accident,  and  for  me  !"  answered 
Margaret  Hayley,  while  something  very  like  a  shudder,  not 
at  all  warranted  by  the  words,  and  that  the  Captain  was  not 
keen  enough  to  perceive,  swept  through  her  form  and  even 
trembled  the  arm  that  rested  within  his. 

"  Difficulty  ?  oh,  no  difficulty,  to  me,  you  know ;  and  for 
you,  Margaret,  more  willingly  than  any  other  person  in  the 
world,  of  course  !"  and  Captain  Hector  Coles,  confident  that 
he  had  expressed  himself  rather  felicitously,  thought  it  a 
good  time  to  bow  around  to  Miss  Hayley,  and  did  so. 

"You  are  quite  right.  Captain  Hector  Coles,"  said  Mrs. 
Burton  Hayley.  "  Low  people,  who  do  not  even  know  how  to 
walk  without  running  over  others,  should  be  kept  at  their 
proper  distance  ;  and  of  course  gentlemen  and  soldiers  like 
yourself  find  it  not  only  a  duty  but  a  privilege  to  afford  to  us 
ladies  that  protection." 

This  time  Captain  Hector  Coles,  immensely  flattered, 
bowed  round  on  the  other  side,  to  the  elder  lady. 

"  Hark  !"  said  Margaret  Hayley,  in  a  louder  voice  than 
either  had  before  used,  and  a  voice  that  had  a  perceptible 
tremor  in  it  like  that  of  fright. 

"  What  did  you  hear  ?"  asked  the  Captain. 

"  Listen — I  want  to  bear  what  that  man  was  saying." 

"  H.  T."  was  speaking,  just  below. 

•'  No,  I  have  never  been  here  before,"  he  said.  *'  Strangely 
enough,  some  of  the  greatest  curiosities  of  the  continent  are 
neglected  by  just  such  fools  as  myself,  until  too  old  or  too 
busy  or  too  careworn  to  enjoy  them." 

"You  speak  like  a  jolly  old  grandfather,  and  yet  you  are 
scarcely  as  old  as  myself,"  answered  the  rich,  sonorous  voice 
of  Halstead  Rowan.  "Well,  that  is  your  business.  The 
White  Mountains  are  no  novelty  to  me,  or  any  other  moun- 
tains, I  believe.  North  of  the  Isthmus." 

"  Is  there  any  thing  finer  than  this,  at  this  moment,  among 
^ hem  all?" 


250  THE      COWARD. 

"  No,  and  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  thing  finer  on  earth  !"  was 
the  enthusiastic  reply.  "  And  by  the  way,  even  I  have  not 
happened  to  see  the  full  moon  on  the  face  of  the  Old  Man, 
before.     It  is  a  magnificent  sight — a  new  sensation." 

"  How  long  has  it  stood  so,  I  wonder  ?  Since  creation  ?" 
said  the  voice  of  "n.  T.,"  "  or  did  the  Flood  hurl  those 
masses  of  stone  into  so  unaccountable  an  accidental  position  ?" 

"Haven't  the  most  remote  idea  I"  answered  Rowan,  gayly. 
"I  have  often  thought  of  it,  though,  when  looking  at  the 
marvel  in  the  sunlight.  But  I  have  never  been  able  to  get 
any  farther  back  than  the  idea  how  the  winds  must  have 
howled  and  the  rains  beaten  around  that  immobile  face,  age 
after  age,  while  whole  generations  of  the  men  after  whom  the 
face  is  apparently  copied  as  a  mockery,  have  been  catching 
cold  and  dying  from  a  mere  puff  of  air  on  the  head  or  a  pair 
of  wet  feet." 

"The  eternal — the  immovable  I"  said  "  H.  T.,"  his  voice 
so  solemn  and  impressive  that  it  w^as  evident  his  words  were 
only  a  faint  representation  of  the  inner  feeling. 

"  I  know  one  thing  that  it  has  been,  without  a  doubt,"  said 
Rowan.  "  When  the  whole  country  was  filled  with  Indians 
of  a  somewhat  nobler  character  than  the  miserable  wretches 
that  alternately  beg  and  murder  on  the  Western  plains,  there 
is  not  much  question  that  they  must  have  worshipped  it  as 
the  face  of  the  Great  Manitou,  looking  down  upon  them  in 
anger  or  in  love,  as  the  storm-cloud  swept  around  it  or  the 
Bummer  sun  tinted  it  with  an  iron  smile." 

Halstead  Rowan  was  speaking  unconscious  poetry,  as  many 
another  man  of  his  disposition  has  done,  while  those  who 
sought  to  make  it  a  trade  have  been  hammering  their  dull 
brains  and  spoiling  much  good  paper  in  the  mere  stringing 
of  rhymes  bearing  the  same  relation  to  poetry  that  an  onion 
does  to  the  bulb  of  a  tulip  !  Whether  his  companion  caught 
the  tone  from  him  and  merely  elaborated  it  into  another  utter- 
ance, or  whether  he  possessed  the  fire  within  himself  and  this 
rencontre  was  only  the  means  of  bringing  out  the  spark,  is 


THE      COWARD.  251 

soniethiug  uot  now  to  be  decided.  But  he  spoke  words  that 
not  only  made  the  other  turn  and  gaze  upon  him  for  a  mo- 
ment with  astonishment,  but  moved  the  three  unseen  auditors 
with  feelings  which  neither  C(5uld  very  well  analyze.  His 
dark  face,  tinted  by  the  moonlight  as  the  stony  brow  of  the 
mountain  was  itself  touched  and  hallowed,  seemed  rapt  as 
those  of  the  seers  of  old  are  sometimes  said  to  have  been  ;  and 
bis  voice  was  strangely  sweet  and  melodious  : 

"  To  me,  just  now,"  he  said,  "  that  iron  face  is  assuming  a 
new  shape." 

"  The  deuce  it  is  !"  answered  Rowan.     "  Where  ?" 

"'In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio  !'■"  quoted  the  speaker,  and 
the  other  seemed  to  understand  something  of  his  mood.  '  "  Ho 
you  know^  that  face  may  be  nothing  more  than  sixty  feet  of 
strangely-shaped  stone,  to  others  ;  but  to  me,  at  this  moment, 
it  is  the  Spirit  of  the  Xorth  looking  sadly  down  over  our  fields 
of  conflict  and  saying  words  that  I  almost  hear.  Listen,  and 
see  if  you  do  not  hear  them,  too  !" 

How  strangely  earnestness  sometimes  impresses  us,  even 
when  little  else  than  madness  is  the  motive  power  !  Halstead 
Rowan,  by  no  means  a  man  to  be  easily  moulded  to  the  fan- 
cies of  any  other,  found  himself  insensibly  turning  his  ear 
towards  the  Sphynx,  as  if  it  was  indeed  speaking  through  the 
still  night  air  ! 

'"  I  am  the  Soul  of  the  Xation,'"  the  singular  voice  went 
on,. speaking  as  if  for  the  lips  of  stone.  "  '  Storms  have  raved 
around  my  forehead  and  thunders  have  shaken  my  base,  but 
nothing  has  moved  me  !  Scarred  I  may  have  been  by  the 
lightning  and  discolored  by  the  beating  rain,  but  the  hand  of 
man  cannot  touch  me,  and  even  the  elements  can  disturb  me' 
not.  I  have  seen  ten  thousand  storms,  and  not  one  but  was 
followed  by  the  bright  sunshine,  because  Nature  was  ever 
true  to  itself.  Be  but  true  to  yourselves,  loyal  men  of  the 
great  American  Union,  and  the  nation  you  love  shall  yet  be 
throned  above  the  reach  of  treason  as  I  am  throned  above  the 


252  THE      COWARD. 

touch  of  man — unapproachable  in  its  power  as  I  am  fearful 
in  my  eternal  isolation  !' " 

Halstead  Rowan  had  ceased  looking  at  the  Sphynx  and 
gazed  only  at  its  oracle,  long  before  the  strange  rhapsody 
concluded  ;  and  Margaret  Hayley,  supported  upon  the  arm 
of  Captain  Hector  Coles,  had  more  thaH  once  shuddered,  and 
at  last  leaned  so  heavily  upon  that  arm  as  to  indicate  that  she 
must  be  suddenly  ill.  To  the  startled  inquiry  of  the  Captain 
as  to  the  cause  of  her  trembling,  she  replied  in  words  that 
indicated  her  feeling  to  have  been  excited  by  the  strangely- 
patriotic  words,  and  by  a  request  to  be  taken  back  at  once  to 
the  Profile.  That  request  was  immediately  heeded,  and  the 
three  passed  on  up  the  road,  where  all  the  other  company  had 
some  time  preceded  them. 

But  one  expression  more  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  strange 
man,  as  the  three  moved  away,  and  Margaret  Hayley 
heard  it. 

"  "Why,  you  must  be  a  poet !"  said  the  lUinoisan,  when  his 
companion  had  concluded  the  rhapsody. 

"  Xo,  I  am  only  a  lawyer,  and  you  must  not  take  all  that 
we  say  for  gospel,  or  even  for  poetry !"  was  the  reply. 
"  Come,  let  us  go  back  to  the  house  and  imagine  that  we  have 
had  enough  of  moonlight.-' 

The  two  followed  up  the  road  at  once  and  overtook  the 
three  but  a  moment  after.  As  they  passed,  "H.  T."  recog- 
nized first  the  shoulder-straps  of  the  officer,  and  then  the  figure 
of  the  lady  upon  his  left  arm.  Turning  to  see  her  face  more 
closely,  his  own  was  for  a  moment  under  the  full  glare  of  the 
moon,  and  Margaret  Hayley  had  a  fair  opportunity  to  observe 
every  feature.  Shaded  as  were  her  own  eyes,  their  direction 
could  not  be  distinguished  ;  but  they  really  scanned  the  face 
before  them  with  even  painful  earnestness,  a  low,  intense  sigh 
of  disappointment  and  unhappiness  escaping  her  when  the 
inspection  had  ended.  She  walked  back  with  Captain  Coles 
and  her  mother  to  the  door  of  the  Profile,  and  left  them  in 
conversation  on  the  moonlit  piazza,  escaping  up-stairs  to  her 


THE      COWARD.  25S 

own  room  and  not  leaving  it  again  during  the  evening. 
What  may  have  been  her  thoughts  and  feelings  can  only  be 
divined  from  one  expression  which  fell  from  her  lips  as  she 
closed  the  door  of  her  chamber  and  dropped  unnerved  upon  a 
chair  at  the  table  : 

"  Who  can  that  man  be  ?  His  voice,  and  yet  not  his  voice  I 
A  shadow  of  his  face,  and  yet  no  more  like  his  face  than 
like  mine  !  Am  I  haunted,  or  has  this  trouble  turned  my 
brain  and  am  I  going  mad  ?  Another  such  evening  would 
kill  me,  I  think  I" 

There  was  the  sound  of  horn  and  harp  and  violin  ringing 
through  the  long  corridors  of  the  Profile  that  evening ;  and 
many  of  those  who  had  shared  in  the  glory  of  the  moonrise 
and  the  solemn  levee  of  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  were 
joining  in  the  dance  that  went  on  in  that  parlor  which  ap- 
peared largo  enough  for  the  drill  evolutions  of  an  entire  regi- 
ment But  few  of  the  new-comers  joined  the  revel  for  that 
evening  ;  most  of  them,  fatigued  at  once  with  travel  and  ex- 
citement, crept  away  to  early  beds  in  order  to  refresh  them- 
selves against  the  morning ;  and  nothing  remained,  of  any 
interest  to  the  progress  of  this  narration,  except  Captain 
Hector  Coles  walking  up  and  down  the  long  piazza  for  more 
than  an  hour  after  Margaret  Hayley  had  retired,  his  boot- 
heels  ringing  upon  the  planks  with  a  somewhat  ostentatious 
affectation  of  the  military  step,  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  mean- 
while leaning  upon  his  arm,  and  the  two  holding  in  tones  so 
low  that  no  passer-by  could  catch  them,  a  conversation  which 
seemed  to  be  peculiarly  earnest  and  confidential. 

Yet  there  was  still  one  occurrence  of  that  night  which 
cannot  be  passed  over  without  serious  injury  to  the  character 
of  this  record  for  strict  veracity.  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame, 
during  a  large  part  of  the  night,  was  in  serious  trouble  w^hich 
required  the  full  exercise  of  her  maternal  vigilance — while 
Miss  Marianna,  deserted  by  her  father  who  had  surreptitiously 
smoked  a  short  pipe  in  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  thence  gone 
to  bed  and  to  sleep,  wandered  disconsolately  round  the  parlor, 


254  THE      COWARD. 

dressed  in  more  costly  frippery  than  would  have  sufficed  to 
establish  two  mantua-makers,  unintroduced  to  any  one,  stared 
at  with  the  naked  eye  and  through  eye-glasses,  her  freckles 
complimented  in  an  undertone  that  she  could  not  avoid  hear- 
ing, the  name  of  her  dress-maker  facetiously  inquired  after, 
and  the  poor  girl,  made  miserable  by  being  dragged  by  her 
silly  parents  to  precisely  the  spot  of  all  the  world  where  she 
least  belonged,  suffering  such  torments  as  should  only  be  in- 
flicted upon  the  most  unrepentant  criminal. 

But  the  peculiar  trouble  of  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  has 
not  as  yet  been  explained,  and  it  must  be  so  disposed  of  in 
a  few  words.  Ill  health,  on  the  plea  of  which  she  had  started 
on  her  "  summer  tour,"  had  really  attacked  her  interesting 
family,  or  at  least  one  highly-important  member  of  it.  Master 
Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame,  naturally  a  little  sharp  set  after 
his  long  ride  and  accustomed  to  regard  any  supper  with 
*'  goodies"  on  the  table  as  something  to  be  clung  to  until  the 
buttons  of  his  small  waistband  could  endure  no  farther  pres- 
sure— Master  Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame,  as  has  already 
been  mentioned,  had  remained  at  the  table  a  little  beyond 
the  bounds  of  strict  prudence.  In  other  words,  he  had  de- 
voured beef-steak  and  fruits,  fish  and  milk,  biscuits  and 
pickles,  tea,  pickled  oysters  and  sweetmeats,  until  even  his 
digestive  pack-horse  was  overloaded.  Very  soon  after  sup- 
per he  had  petitioned  to  be  taken  to  bed,  and  then  un- 
pleasant if  not  serious  symptoms  had  been  no  long  time  in 
supervening.  During  a  large  part  of  the  night  there  were  a 
coaple  of  chambermaids  running  to  and  from  that  part  of  the 
building,  with  hot  water,  brandy,  laudanum,  foot-baths  and 
other  appliances  for  suffering  small  humanity;  while  Master 
Brooks  Brooks  kept  doubling  himself  up  in  all  imaginable  at- 
titudes and  crying  :  "  Oh,  mommy  !''  in  a  manner  calculated 
to  wring  the  heart  of  that  motherly  person, — to  make  Mr. 
Brooks  Cunninghame,  who  wished  to  sleep,  growl  out  some 
reasonably-coarse  oaths  between  his  clenched  teeth, — and  to 
induce  wonder  on  the  part  of  people  who  had  occasion  to 


THE      COWARD.  255 

pass  the  front  of  the  building  or  come  out  on  the  piazza, 
whether  they  did  or  did  not  keep  a  small  menagerie  of 
3-oung  bears,  wolves  and  wild-cats  in  full  blast  on  the  second 
floor. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


Miss  Clara  Yanderlyn  and  her  Pet  Bears — A  Misad- 
venture AND  A  Friendly  ITand  in  Tlme — The  Question 
OF  Courage — Halstead  Rowan  and  Mrs.  Brooks  Cun- 
ninghame  on  Geography — The  Dead  Washington,  the 
Flume  and  the  Pool — With  the  personal  relations 
weaving  at  that  juncture. 

Breakfast  was  over  at  the  Profile,  on  the  next  morning; 
the  stages  had  rolled  away  for  Littleton,  the  Crawford  and 
Plymouth  ;  and  preparations  were  in  progress  for  a  ride  of  two 
or  three  wagon-loads  down  the  glen  to  the  Flume, — when 
"H.  T.,''  cigar  in  mouth,  passed  out  from  the  bar-room  to 
the  piazza  and  thence  across  the  plateau  in  front,  towards  the 
billard-room  and  ten-pin-alley,  standing  a  hundred  yards  away 
to  the  right,  and  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  slope  of  the  moun- 
tain. He  had  seen,  in  the  dusk  and  afterwards  in  the  moon- 
light of  the  night  before,  that  a  couple  of  the  rough  pets  of 
the  mountain  region  were  sojourning  at  the  Notch,  in  the 
shape  of  half-grown  black  bears,  chained  to  stakes  some 
twenty  feet  apart,  with  a  dog-kennel  for  their  joint  retreat, 
perhaps  a  hundred  feet  from  the  house  and  immediately  in 
front  of  it,  where 'their  antics  could  be  discerned  and  enjoyed 
from  the  piazza  and  the  front  windows.  He  had  seen,  too, 
going  out  earlier  that  morning,  that  they  did  not  appear  yet 
old  enough  to  be  dangerously  vicious,  and  that  they  seemed 
very  playful  for  that  description  of  beast.  Everybody  was 
feeding  them,  from  early  morning  to  dusk,  with  nuts,  raisins 


256  THE      COWARD 

and  crackers  surreptitiously  taken  from  the  table  for  that  pur- 
pose ;  and  the  young.>^tci'S  no  doubt  consumed  in  feeding  the 
young  Bruins,  quite  as  much  food  as  they  themselves  man- 
aged to  devour. 

Just  then  not  less  than  a  dozen  persons  were  surrounding 
the  household  favorites,  feeding  them,  putting  them  through 
their  clumsy  evolutions  which  principally  consisted  in  sitting 
erect  or  climbing  a  short  post  to  get  a  nut  placed  on  the  top, — 
or  developing  the  usual  human  propensity  for  teazing.  Most 
of  them  were  ladies,  and  among  the  others,  as  he  went  by  at 
a  short  distance,  he  recognized  Miss  Clara  Tanderlyn,  his 
fellow-passenger  of  the  day  before, — her  face  rosy  with  the 
excitement  of  a  just-accomplished  morning  walk,  her  bonnet 
on  arm,  and  her  whole  countenance  radiant  with  amusement 
as  she  plied  the  dusky  pets  with  her  pocket  full  of  nuts  and 
raisins.  She  seemed  to  have  acquired  a  wonderful  ascend- 
anc}"  over  the  beasts  in  a  very  brief  acquaintance  ;  for  while 
all  the  others  shrank  from  coming  absolutely  within  reach, 
she  not  only  fed  them  without  fear  but  rubbed  their  black  coats 
and  patted  their  gristly  noses  as  if  they  had  been  pet  kittens. 
Two  or  three  men  were  lounging  near,  evidently  admiring  the 
new  lady  accession  to  Profile  society,  but  none  claiming  an 
acquaintance. 

"H.  T.,"  who  either  had  a  propensity  for  ten-pins  that 
morning,  overbalancing  the  admiration  of  Miss  Tanderlyn 
which  he  had  shown  the  day  before,  or  a  still  stronger  at- 
traction for  company  whom  he  knew  to  be  at  the  alley — 
"  H.  T."  was  just  passing  on  when  Margaret  Hayley,  accom- 
panied by  the  inevitable  Captain  Hector  Coles,  came  out  of 
the  door  of  the  billiard-room  and  advanced  towards  the  bear- 
stakes.  It  must  remain  a  mystery  whether  this  appearance 
from  the  door  did  or  did  not  make  a  change  in  his  own  neces- 
sity for  exercise  :  suffice  it  to  say  that  he  stopped,  turned  par- 
tially around  and  joined  the  group  who  were  making  levee  to 
the  Bruins. 

At  that  moment,  when  Clara  Yanderlvn  had  succeeded  in 


THE       COWARD.  2C)7 

luria<i:  one  of  the  bears  to  the  toj)  of  his  "  stool  of  repentance" 
(the  short  post),  and  was  bending  close  above  him,  feeding 
and  fondling  what  few  other  female  hands  dared  touch, — a 
new  actor  came  upon  the  scene,  in  the  shape  of  Master  Brooks 
Brooks  Cunninghame,  accorapan^nng  his  "  Mommy."  He  had 
not  died  the  night  before  as  might  have  been  expected  from 
his  surfeit,  but  the  freckled  appearance  of  his  face  was  mate- 
rially improved  by  a  ground  hue  of  greenish  white  which  his 
short  sickness  had  imparted.  His  careful  mamma  had  dressed 
him  for  that  gala-day  in  a  complete  phiid  suit  of  bhie  and 
white,  with  a  cap  of  the  same  material  aud  a  black  feather; 
and  he  looked  scarcely  less  ornamental  than  useful.  Evi- 
dently, sick  as  he  had  really  been,  he  was  all  alive  and  awake 
that  morning  and  might  be  safely  calculated  upon  for  adding 
to  the  general  comfort  by  prowess  of  mouth  and  fingers.  And 
the  company  were  not  obliged  to  wait  very  long  for  proof  that 
the  scion  of  the  house  of  Cunninghame  was  aware  of  the 
duties  of  his  position  and  quite  equal  to  them.  He  left  the 
maternal  hand,  spite  of  the  clutching  of  the  latter,  at  the 
moment  of  arriving  at  the  bear-stakes,  and  spying  what  he 
rightly  judged  to  be  a  good  opportunity,  stepped  rapidly  round 
behind  the  bear,  caught  him  by  the  stumpy  tail,  and  gave  him 
a  sharp  twitch  which  nearly  threw  him  from  the  top  of  the 
post. 

In  an  instant  the  playful  nature  of  the  bear  was  gone,  and 
with  one  sudden  growl  he  raised  his  heavy  paw  with  its  sharp 
claws  and  struck  full  at  the  face  of  Miss  A'anderlyn,  not  two 
feet  from  him.  Every  one  present  saw  the  blow,  but  no  one 
seemed  to  have  enough  presence  of  mind  or  courage  to  shield 
her  from  a  stroke  which,  falling  full  in  her  unprotected  face, 
must  certainly  have  disfigured  her  for  life. 

No  one — it  has  been  said  :  no  one  of  those  known  to  be 
present,  most  of  whom  were  women  or  children  ;  and  neither 
"  H.  T."  nor  Captain  Hector  Coles  had  yet  come  near  enough 
to  be  of  any  possible  service.  Yet  the  blow  did  not  reach 
Clara  Vanderlyn.     A  hand  and   arm   were  suddenly  dashed 


258  THE       COWARD. 

between  the  paw  and  the  threatened  face,  with  such  force  that 
while  the  sharp  claws  tore  the  skin  and  flesh  in  ribbons  from 
the  back  of  the  hand  and  split  the  coat-sleeve  as  if  it  had 
been  paper, — the  bear  was  knocked  backward  off  his  perch  and 
rolled  over  in  a  ball  on  the  ground  at  the  side  of  the  kennel. 
When  any  of  the  company  sufficiently  recovered  from  their 
astonishment  to  glance  at  the  face  of  the  lucky  yet  unlucky 
preserver,  they  saw  that  it  was  that  of  the  bluff  arrival  of  the 
evening  before,  Halstead  Rowan. 

With  the  exception  of  three  persons,  all  present  rushed  up 
at  once,  under  the  impression  that  Rowan's  hand  must  be  se- 
riously injured.  One  of  these  exceptions  was  "  H.  T.,"  who 
made  a  movement  to  dart  forward,  even  from  his  distance, 
when  he  saw  the  blow  impending:,  but  who  the  instant  that  it 
had  fallen  turned  and  walked  back  towards  the  ten-pin  alley. 
The  second  was  Margaret  Hay  ley,  who  had  recognized  the  per- 
sonality of  both  the  conversationists  of  the  previous  evening, 
and  who  naturally  stopped  in  blank  surprise  to  sec  one  of  two 
persons  whom  she  supposed  to  be  intimate  friends,  turn  away 
the  moment  that  the  other  was  wounded.  The  third  was 
Captain  Hector  Coles,  who  really  had  no  power  to  do  other- 
wise than  obey  the  check  laid  upon  him  by  the  lady's  hand. 

All  who  saw  knew  that  the  injury  must  be  severe,  but  it 
might  have  been  the  scratch  of  a  pin  for  any  effect  which  it 
seemed  to  produce  on  the  Illinoisan.  The  blood  was  stream- 
ing profusely  from  the  wound,  but  almost  before  any  one 
saw  it  the  other  hand  was  inserted  in  a  side-pocket,  and  a 
w^hite  handkerchief  drawn  thence  and  w^rapped  around  the 
injured  member. 

"  Are  you  much  hurt,  sir  ?" 

**  What  a  narrow  escape,  miss  !" 

"  Indeed,  I  thought  his  paw  would  injure  your  face 
terribly  1" 

"  Somebody  ought  to  kill  that  boy !" 

These  and  a  score  of  similar  expressions  burst  from  the 
dozen  or  two  of  spectators.     Miss  Yanderlyn  had  caught  the 


TUE      COWARD.  250 

young  man  by  the  sleeve  of  llie  coat,  with  perceptible  ner- 
vousness in  her  grip,  and  said,  with  all  that  sweet  smile 
faded  from  her  face,  and  her  voice  trembling  with  anxiety : 

"  Indeed — indeed,  sir,  I  am  very  grateful  to  you.  I  should 
have  been  badly  hurt,  I  fear,  but  for  your  kind  aid.  Pray 
let  us  do  something  to  prevent  your  suflfering  so  much  from 
your  generosity.  I  am  afraid  that  you  are  very  much 
injured  !" 

"  Oh,  not  in  the  least,  madame — miss,  perhaps  I  should 
say.  Nothing  but  a  scratch  ;  and  if  the  company  at  the 
Profile  do  not  object  to  a  big  glove,  none  of  us  will  be  aware 
of  the  accident  in  a  few  minutes." 

"  Trust  me,  sir  !"  said  the  young  lady,  in  the  same  anxious 
tone,  "/shall  be  aware  of  your  kindness  so  long  as  I  live." 

"  Pray  do  not  mention  it  again  1"  said  Rowan.  "  Indeed 
I  am  only  too  happy  that  the  little  affair  occurred."  He  was 
telling  the  truth,  beyond  a  question,  however  far  he  might 
have  been  from  telling  what  they  equally  require  in  the 
courts  of  law — the  ichole  truth;  and  again  for  one  instant 
there  might  have  been  seen  sweeping  over  his  face  the  same 
changing  expression  that  had  played  hide-and-seek  there  on 
his  first  arrival  the  evening  before  : — admiration — regard — 
reverence — hope — joy  ;  and  then  the  dull  shadow  of  recollec- 
tion and  hopelessness. 

Clara  Yanderlyn,  too,  whether  she  had  or  had  not  remarked 
him  on  that  occasion — Clara  Yanderlyn  saw  and  read  his 
face  now  !  Her  eyes  fixed  for  one  moment  full  upon  his, 
then  drooped,  and  the  rich  blood  crept  up  to  brow,  neck,  and 
bosom,  from  which  it  had  been  expelled  by  the  temporary 
fright.  For  an  instant  she  was  silent,  and  seemed  to  be 
studying;  then  she  drew  from  the  little  reticule  which  hung 
upon  her  arm  a  card-case,  took  out  a  card,  and  handed  it  to 
Kowan,  with  a  still  more  conscious  blush,  her  old  smile,  and 
the  words  : 

"  I  am  aware,  sir,  that  this  is  a  singular  introduction,  and 
on  my  part  a  painful  one,  as  it  has  been  the  means  of  caus- 


260  THE      COWARD. 

ini!:  you  an  injury;  but  my  mother  aud  my  brother  will  be 
glad  to  know  you  and  to  thank  you  better  than  I  can  do." 

"  Miss  Vanderlyn,"  said  Rowan,  taking  the  card  and 
glancing  at  the  name  just  as  earnestly  avS  if  he  had  never 
paid  any  attention  whatever  to  the  register  at  the  office, 
"you  do  me  too  much  honor.  I  have  no  card  in  my  pocket. 
Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  give  me  anotlier  of  yours  ?" 

She  at  once  handed  him  another  card  and  a  pencil,  and  he 
dashed  down,  in  a  bold,  rapid,  and  mercantile  hand,  though 
he  used  the  sinister  member  for  the  operation,  the  name  and 
address  which  the  little  black  trunk  had  before  revealed  to 
those  who  chose  to  read. 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Rowan.  Good-morning  !  Pray  take 
care  of  your  hand,  or  I  shall  never  forgive  myself!"  she  said, 
nodding  to  her  new  acquaintance,  and  turning  towards  the 
house.  Rowan  bowed  low,  said  good-morning,  and  strolled 
away  towards  the  ten-pin  alley,  apparently  not  more  con- 
cerned by  the  hurt  than  if  he  had  merely  pricked  .his  finger. 
He  was  one  of  those  booked  for  the  ride  to  the  Flume,  but  he 
seemed  to  need  severer  exercise,  and  the  momtjnt  after  he 
might  have  been  seen  with  his  hand  still  wrapped  in  the 
bloody  white  handkerchief,  bowling  away  at  the  pins  with  the 
other,  and  humming  the  Grand  March  in  "  Norma"  as  if  he 
thought  that  a  favorable  strain  of  music  to  accompany  the 
levelling  of  obstacles  or  enemies. 

^trs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  hearing  the  threat  directed  at 
her  promising  boy,  had  mustered  common-sense  enough  to 
hurry  him  away  from  the  scene  of  action.  Captain  Coles 
and  Miss  Hayley  had  meanwhile  come  up,  and  "  H.  T.," 
turning  once  more  before  he  reached  the  alley,  reached  the 
spot  at  the  same  moment.  For  the  first  time,  in  broad  day- 
light, Margaret  Hayley  met  the  strange  man  face  to  face, 
and  her  cheek  whitened — why,  even  she  perhaps  could  not 
tell — at  that  expression  or  resemblance  which  slie  traced 
there.  If  there  was  any  answering  expression  of  agitation 
or  surprise  on  the  face  of  the  man  with  the  initials,  she  failed 


I  THE      COWARD.  "SSl 

to  read  it,  and  her  eyes  in  a  moment  aank  from  a  survey 
which  seemed  so  profitless.  They  were  at  that  time  very 
near  each  other,  and  Captain  Coles  and  "  H.  T."  not  more 
than  six  feet  apart.  Their  eyes  met,  nnd  that  indefinalde 
somethinp;  passed  between  them  before  another  word  was 
spoken,  which  includes  antaj^onism,  if  not  deadly  hostility. 
There  was  no  reason  to  believe  that  they  had  ever  met  Ijefore 
the  preceding  evening;  there  was  no  reason  to  believe  that 
they  could  ever  have  an  interest  in  conflict ;  and  yet  those 
two  men  were  foes,  and  would  remain  so  until  one  or  the 
other  should  be  thoroughly  conquered. 

"  A  go-ahead  fellow,  I  should  not  be  afraid  to  stake  my 
life  !"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  had  just  come  up, 
alluding  to  the  hero  of  the  hour  and  seeming  to  address  any 
one  who  might  choose  to  answer. 

*'  Ya-a-as  !"  slowly  and  doubtingly  said  Captain  Hector 
Coles,  caressing  his  beard  and  throwing  almost  insufferable 
arrogance  into  a  manner  which  naturally  had  quite  enough 
of  it.  "Ya-a-as,  go-ahead  enough,  apparently,  but  not  a  bit 
of  a  gentleman.  Rough  as  the  bear  he  just  knocked  over, 
and  looks  as  if  he  might  have  come  from  among  something 
of  the  same  breed  1" 

"  Xo,  not  a  gentleman,  probably!"  said  "II.  T.,"  with  a 
sneer  in  his  tone  quite  as  little  disguised  as  the  other's  arro- 
gance. "  But  he  is  something  a  good  deal  better,  in  my 
opinion,  and  something  a  good  deal  rarer — a  man,  every 
inch  of  him  !" 

"At  any  rate,"  said  another,  who  had  not  yet  spoken, 
"I  would  give  a  hundred  dollars  to  have  blundered  into  an 
introduction  to  that  splendid  girl  as  he  has  done,  even  if  it 
cost  me  a  hand  worse  scratched  than  his." 

"He  has  7?  arZ  worse  scratches  I  Did  you  notice  the  scar 
on  his  cheek,  coming  away  down  here  to  the  neck  ?"  said 
one  of  the  ladies  who  had  witnessed  the  whole  affair,  address- 
ing Margaret  Hay  ley. 

"  Xo — has  he  a  scar  ?" 


262  THE      COWARD. 

"  A  terrible  one.  I  think  he  must  have  been  a  soldier,  at 
some  time  or  other." 

"  I  believe  that  he  has  the  noblest  gift  ever  conferred  by 
God  upon  man, — that  of  courage  !"  answered  Margaret.  "If 
he  was  a  slave  or  a  savage  I  could  love  and  respect  him  for 
that,  as  I  should  despise  him  if  he  was  a  king  without  it !" 

From  the  depth  of  what  a  terrible  wound  in  her  own  heart 
was  the  young  girl  speaking,  and  what  a  concentrated  force 
of  bitter  earnest  rankled  in  such  words  falling  from  her  beau- 
tiful lips  !  Captain  Hector  Coles  heard,  but  made  no  answer, 
as  why  should  he,  for  was  he  not  one  of  the  country's  defenders 
and  a  brave  man  by  profession?  "  H.  T."  heard  her,  and 
his  upper  lip,  under  the  shadow  of  his  dark  moustache,  set 
down  tightly  upon  the  lower,  while  over  his  handsome  dusky 
face  passed  an  expression  which  might  have  been  pain  and 
might  have  been  the  crushing  out  of  some  last  scruple  of  con- 
science that  stood  between  him  and  a  half-intended  line  of 
action. 

"  Passengers  for  the  Flume"  had  been  the'  call  some  minutes 
before  ;  and  by  the  conclusion  of  this  scene,  at  nine  o'clock  or 
thereabout,  the  wagons  for  that  daily  ride  of  inveterate  Fran- 
con  i  an  s  were  drawn  up  at  the  door.  They  were  two  in  num- 
ber, the  list  of  riders  for  that  fine  morning  being  unusually 
heav3\  Not  coaches,  that  necessarily  shut  away  a  part  of 
the  view,  but  long  low  wagons  on  jacks,  each  with  four  or 
five  cross  seats,  a  heavy  brake  and  four  mettled  horses — for 
fine  weather  and  through  the  shaded  glen  roads,  the  safest 
and  pleasantest  of  all  the  mountain  conveyances.  Five  minutes 
sufficed  to  fill  both  those  conveyances,  with  some  thirty  per- 
sons, among  the  number  all  those  in  whom  this  narration 
awakes  any  interest.  How  they  were  divided  ofi"  or  how 
seated  is  a  matter  of  no  consequence,  except  in  a  certain  par- 
ticular. Halstead  Rowan  managed  to  secure  a  seat  in  the 
same  wagon  with  Clara  Yauderlyn,  though  at  the  other  end 
of  the  vehicle, — and  in  so  doing  found  himself  by  the  side  of 
Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  and  only  one  remove  from  that 


THE      COWARD.  2d8 

hopeful,  Master  Brooks  Brooks.  Not  enjoying  quite  the 
same  facilities  as  some  of  the  otlier.s  for  studying  that  lady 
the  night  before,  he  had  still  been  attracted  to  her  at  breakfast 
and  found  time  to  ''cypher  up"  her  calibre  and  social  position 
to  {V  most  amusing  nicety.  Whether  vvildness  was  the  normal 
condition  of  his  character,  as  seemed  possible,  or  whether  liis 
slight  rencontre  with  the  young  bear,  and  the  flattering  con- 
versation with  a  pretty  girl  which  followed,  had  dizzied  his 
brain  a  little,  as  was  both  possible  and  natural, — he  was  ia 
high  spirits  and  the  very  demon  of  mischief  had  taken  pos- 
session of  him.  He  had  apparently  determined  to  devote 
himself  somewhat  to  the  comfort  of  that  Arch-priestess  of 
Shoddy  during  the  morning  ride,  and  a  pleasant  time  that 
elevated  personage  was  likely  to  have  of  it  I 

Just  after  leaving  the  breakfast  table,  Rowan  had  chanced 
to  overhear  a  few  words  of  conversation  between  Mrs.  Brooks 
Cunninghame  and  one  of  the  lady  habitues  of  the  house  on 
whom  she  was  aiming  to  make  a  tremendous  impression ; 
and  those  few  words  had  fully  revealed  one  of  the  leading 
points  of  the  parvenu's  tactics.  Some  one  had  told  her, 
apparently,  or  she  had  read  the  statement  in  so-called  "polite 
publications"— ^that  no  "one  could  be  fashionable,  now-a-days, 
without  having  been  "abroad" — i.  e.,  without  having  made 
at  least  one  tour  in  Europe.  Now  that  Mrs.  Brooks  Cun- 
ninghame had  been  abroad,  at  least  so  far  as  beyond  the 
Atlantic,  at  that  very  early  period  before  she  left  the  paternal 
cabin,  pig  and  potatoes, — seemed  the  most  probable  of  allega- 
tions; but  in  the  matter  of  actual  travel,  or  of  those  substi- 
tutes for  travel  which  may  be  found  in  a  thorougli  acquaint- 
ance with  geography  and  a  close  study  of  guide-books  and 
the  best  travellers,  the  poor  woman  had  been  as  guiltless,  a 
few  weeks  before,  as  the  most  stay-at-home  and  illiterate  of 
her  early  acquaintances.  But  she  could  read,  which  was 
something,  and  had  no  conscience  worth  speaking  of,  which 
was  something  more.  Perhaps  some  one  had  told  her  the 
traditional  storv  of  Tom   Sheridan  and   his  father,  and  the 


26i  THE       CO  W  A  K  i>. 

wonder  which  the  latter  expressed  tliat  the  former  "could  not 
Hav  that  he  had  been  down  into  a  coal-pit  without  really 
p:oin{5  there."  The  woithy  lady,  as  Rowan  soon  discovered 
by  a  few  desultory  words,  had  no  corresponding  objection, 
provided  she  could  seem  to  have  been  anywhere;  and  there 
M'as  little  doubt  that  she  had  procured  a  guide-book  or  two 
and  "read  up,"  as  Honorable  ^lenibers  very  often  do  before 
making  speeches  on  subjects  of  which  they  know  nothing 
whatever, — and  as  snobs  sometimes  do  in  books  on  "Perfect 
Gentility"  and  the  "  Whole  Art  of  Dining  Out,"  before  going 
into  society  which  seems  a  little  too  weighty  for  their  pre- 
vious training.  How  well  she  had  succeeded,  may  best  be 
illustrated  by  a  little  of  her  conversation  with  the  lllinoisan, 
who  took  care,  to  introduce  the  subject  of  her  "travels" 
(with  what  he  had  overheard,  as  a  hint)  very  soon  after  the 
wagons  rolled  away  from  the  Profile,  and  without  waiting 
for  any  formal  introduction. 

He  broke  the  ice  with  the  remark,  equally  tempting  and 
flattering  to  his  next  neighbor: 

"You  must  enjoy  this  tine  scenery  very  much,  madam,  as 
you  have  chances  of  comparison  that  some  of  us  lack.  You 
have  travelled  in  Europe,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Yes — yes,  sir,"  answered  the  lady,  a  little  doubtful  which 
of  the  two  was  the  proper  answer  to  so  profound  a  sentence. 
If  she  was  at  all  nervous  about  plunging  into  such  untried 
waters  with  a  total  stranger,  his  disclamatory  hint  of  his  own 
experiences  reassured  her;  and  besides,  one  of  the  ladies  was 
on  the  seat  immediately  behind,  to  whom  she  had  been  boast- 
ing that  very  morning,  and  it  would  never  do  to  abandon  the 
ground  once  taken. 

"Ah,  how  proud  you  must  feel,  madam,  of  having  seen  so 
many  of  the  wonders  of  nature  I"  the  wretch  went  on.  "  I 
have  never  yet  been  able  to  cross  the  ocean,  myself,  and  the 
conversation  of  foreign  travellers  is  naturally  both  pleasant 
and  instructive  to  me.' 

"  Much   obliged  to  you,  I   am  sure,"'  the  lady  returned. 


T  H  E       C  O  W  A  K  J).  ,      265 

Some  of  the  passengers  in  the  Ava<ron,  who  had  previously 
observed  the  hero  of  the  morning,  and  thought  him  any  thing 
else  rather  than  a  fool,  looked  twice  at  him,  at  this  juncture, 
to  discover  what  he  could  mean  by  addressing  complimentary 
conversation  to  that  compound  of  ignorance  and  vulgarity. 
It  must  be  owned  that  Clara  Yanderlyn,  who  sat  on  one  of 
the  back  seats  while  the  interlocutors  were  in  front,  believing 
the  man  in  earnest,  felt  for  the  moment  a  sensation  of  disgust 
towards  him  and  wished  her  card  back  in  her  reticule.  But 
if  she  and  some  of  the  others  w^ere  temporarily  deceived,  the 
deception  was  not  of  long  continuance. 

The  statement  by  Rowan  that  he  had  never  been  across 
the  Atlantic,  was  the  one  thing  necessary  to  reassure  Mrs. 
Brooks  Cunninghame  ;  and  that  point  settled,  she  felt  sure  of 
her  ground. 

"How  long  since  you  w^ere  abroad,  madam,  may  I  ask  ?'^ 
he  continued. 

"Five  3''ears,"  answered  the  lady,  who  no  doubt  felt  that 
both  her  duration  of  standing  in  society  and  the  accuracy  of 
her  memory  would  appear  the  better  for  a  little  lapse  of  time. 

"  Five  years,  indeed  ?  so  long  ?"  asked  the  scamp,  with 
every  appearance  of  interest.  "And  did  you  have  your  dear 
little  boy  with  you  all  the  time?" 

"Xo,  ni}^  physician  did  not  think  it  prudent  for  me  to  take 
him  along  of  me,  and  I  left  him  to  home  with  the  nurse,"  was 
the  reply.  The  fact  was,  really,  that  at  the  early  period 
named  her  "  physician"  had  been  a  drunken  Indian-herb  doc- 
tor, the  only  description  of  medical  man  likely  to  visit  the 
shanty  which  she  yet  occupied, — and  that  she  had  been  (per- 
haps better  and  more  honorably  occupied  than  at  any  time 
after!)  doing  her  own  work  without  the  hope  or  thought  of 
ever  employing  a  servant. 

"Dear  little  fellow  !"  said  the  Illinoisan,  caressing  the 
scrubbing-l)rush  head  of  the  repulsive  youngster.  "  What  a 
pity  that  he  could  not  have  gone  with  you  I     By  the  way, 


266  THE      COWARD. 

madam,  you  went  by  steamer,  of  course.  Did  you  take 
steamer  for  Paris,  or — or — St.  PetersburGch  ?" 

By  this  time  most  of  the  passengers  began  to  perceive  what 
was  coming,  and  there  were  symptoms  of  a  titter  in  tlie  back 
seats,  but  nothing  that  warned  or  disturbed  the  victim. 

"  Oh,  Paris,  of  course  I"  was  the  answer.  "  Dear,  delight- 
ful Paris,  where  the  shops  was  so  handsome  and  the  women 
wore  such  elegant  bunnits  !"     (See  guide-books.) 

**  You  landed  at  Paris  direct  from  the  steamer,  I  suppose  ?" 
asked  the  tormentor,  at  which  question  the  titter  really  began, 
but  still  too  quietly  to  put  the  lady  on  her  guard. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  !"  was  the  answer.  "  The  tide  was 
high,  and  we  went  right  up."  The  poor  woman  had  probably 
been  aground,  son\e  time,  on  the  Hudson  Overslaugh  or  the 
Shrewsbury  Flats,  and  supposed  that  nothing  but  low  tide 
could  prevent  going  up  to  Paris  by  steamship. 

"Let  me  see — what  is  the  name  of  that  river  that  takes 
you  up  to  Paris  ?"  the  scamp  went  on,  with  his  face  con- 
torted into  a  w^onderful  appearance  of  earnest  thought. 
"  The — the — the — which  is  it,  now,  the  Danube  or  the 
Amazon  ?" 

*'  I  am  not  very  sure,"  answered  the  lady  at  hap-hazard,  "  I 
almost  forget,  but  I  think  it  is  the  Amazon — yes,  I  know  it 
must  be  the  Amazon." 

At  about  that  period  there  was  a  laugh  in  the  back  part  of 
the  long  wagon,  and  Clara  Yanderlyn  w^as  as  red  in  the  face 
as  if  she  had  been  committing  some  serious  fault.  She  would 
unquestionably  have  liked  to  pinch  that  naughty  fellow's  ears, 
if  not  to  box  them.  But  the  laugh  did  not  disturb  Mrs. 
Brooks  Cunninghame,  for  the  young  people  were  frolicking 
all  the  while  and  a  hundred  laughs  might  break  out  without 
one  of  them  being  directed  at  hfr.  Halstead  Tvowan  had 
kept  his  own  face  perfectly  serene  so  far,  but  he  evidently 
began  to  feel  twitchings  around  the  mouth  which  might  give 
him  trouble  directly,  and,  for  fear  of  the  worst,  he  fired  his 
concluding  shots  with  great  rapidity. 


THK      COWARD.  267 

"  You  were  in  London,  of  course  ?"  he  asked» 

"  Yes,  a  good  while  ;  we  took  a  house  there,  and  seen  the 
Queen,  and  the  Crystal  Palace — " 

"Let  me  see — the  Queen  lives  in  the  Crystal  Palace, 
doesn't  she  ?" 

"  Of  course  she  does  !"  answered  the  traveller,  who  re- 
membered just  so  much  as  that  queens  and  palaces  belonged 
together,  and  no  more. 

More  laughing  at  the  back  of  the  w^agon,  a  little  choking, 
and  some  stuffing  of  cambric  handkerchiefs  into  mouths  pretty 
or  the  reverse.  Ko  irreparable  explosion  as  yet,  though  that 
catastropfle  could  not  possibly  be  long  deferred. 

"  Yes — you  were  in  London  :  did  you  go  up  the  Pyra- 
mids ?" 

"  No,  we  went  to  'em,  but  not  up  'em." 

"  But  you  went  up  the  Alps,  of  course  ? — everybody  goes 
up  the  Alps." 

"  Of  course  w^e  did  !"  and  the  lady  really  bridled.  "  Think 
we  would  go  so  far  as  that  and  spend  so  much  money,  and 
not  go  up  that  there  ?" 

The  explosion  was  impending — there  was  already  a  rum- 
bling in  the  distance,  which  should  have  been  heeded. 

"  How  did  you  go  up — in  what  kind  of  a  vessel  did  you 
Gay,  madam  ?" 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  by  this  time  the  lady  w^as  con- 
siderably confused  even  in  the  smattering  of  information  from 
the  guide-book,  with  which  she  had  commenced  ;  and  she 
could  not  have  had  any  moral  doubt  remaining  that  the  Alps 
was  a  river ;  for  she  answered,  without  one  symptom  of  con- 
sciousness in  her  countenance  : 

"  We  went  up  in  a  steamboat,  and  a  nasty  little  thing  it 
was !"  "^ 

The  threatened  explosion  had  arrived.  That  w^ngon-load 
of  people  laughed,  shrieked  and  roared,  bent  doul)le  and 
chuckled  themselves  red  in  the  face,  to  a  degree  which  was 
very  discreditable  to  their  sense  of  propriety  and  very  be- 


,  268  T  H  B      COWARD. 

wildering  to  the  mountain  echoes.  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunning- 
hame  looked  around  to  see  wliat  was  the  matter,  and  at  that 
moment  it  seemed  that  a  dim  perception  must  have  crept 
through  her  head  that  she  had  something  to  do  with  the  mer- 
riment, for  she  reddened,  bridled  and  grew  strangely  silent. 
Halstead  Rowan,  as  she  looked  around, — not  by  any  means 
joining  in  the  laugh,  had  suddenly  discovered  that  his  legs 
were  cra'mped  from  riding,  sprung  over  the  side  of  the  wagon 
and  disappeared  behind  a  bend  of  the  road^  to  make  the  rest 
of  the  short  distance  to  the  Flume  House  on  foot. 

A  mile  further,  after  this  novel  lesson  in  geography  had 
been  taken,  and  the  wagons  drew  up  at  the  door  of\he  Flume 
House,  once  a  great  caravanserai  that  rivalled  any  other  in  the 
mountains,  then  a  mere  unoccupied  pendant  of  the  all-absorb- 
ing Profile  which  has  literally  swallowed  it.  It  stands  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  Franconia  Notch  proper,  and  the  mountains 
fall  away  below  it  southward,  so  much  that  the  feeling  of  op- 
pressive isolation  at  the  Profile  is  here  lost  entirely.  But 
there  is  one  charm  connected  with  the  Flume  House,  that  can 
never  be  forgotten  by  those  who  have  once  stood  there  and 
looked  eastward  ;  and  the  merry  occupants  of  the  before-de- 
serted piazza,  that  day,  were  not  likely  to  be  allowed  to  ride 
away  without  having  that  charm  called  to  their  attention,  to 
be  remembered  ever  after  as  one  of  those  marvels  with  which 
Nature  confounds  Art  and  defies  calculation. 

Full  before  them,  as  they  looked,  loomed  up  the  peak  of 
Mount  Liberty,  so  called,  as  is  supposed,  because  the  curve 
of  the  crown  northward  has  some  indefinite  resemblance  to 
the  Phrygian  liberty-cap  of  the  French  revolution.  But  a 
sadder  and  more  solemn  resemblance  was  there,  needing  to 
be  pointed  out  at  first,  but  asserting  itself  as  a  strange  reality 
thenceforward,  in  presence  or  in  absence.  It  was  with  a  thrill 
of  awe  that  the  riders,  as  so  many  had  done  before  them  and  as 
some  of  them  had  done  long  before,  recognized  the  form  of  the 
Dead  Washington,  stretched  out  on  the  summit  of  the  eternal 
mountains  that  seemed  almost  'niighty  and  enduring  enough 


THE       COWARD,  269 

for  tbeir  awful  burthen.  There  seemed  a  little  obscurity  in 
the  nioutl)  and  lips,  as  if  the  shrouding  pall  partially  covered 
them;  but  the  contour  of  the  massive  nose  was  perfect,  as 
the  rugged  peak  stood  relieved  against  the  eastern  sky,  and 
above  it  the  godlike  forehead  swept  up  southward  and  fell  away 
again  in  the  very  curve  of  the  hair  drawn  backward  as  it  would 
be  when  lying  in  the  calm  repose  of  death.  Northward  the 
long  round  of  Mount  Liberty  marked  the  full  breast, 'sinking 
at  the  recumbent  hip  and  rising  again  at  the  bend  of  the  mas- 
sive knee;  while  still  farther  away  and  in  the  exact  line  of 
symmetry,  one  of  the  peaks  of  the  Haystack  group  shot  up 
and  fell  suddenly  on  the  other  side,  as  the  drapery  would  do 
over  the  stiffened  feet.  Then  the  resemblance  was  complete, 
unmistakable,  almost  fearful ;  and  those  who  looked  with 
reverent  eyes  realized  that  the  Eternal  Hand,  thousands  of 
years  ago  and  in  a  mood  that  would  write  prophecy  on  the 
very  face  of  the  earth  instead  of  recording  it  on  tables  of 
stone,  had  throned  on  the  tops  of  the  northern  mountains 
an  enduring  likeness  of  that  man  yet  unborn,  whose  glory 
was  to  gild  every  peak  and  fill  every  valley  with  the  brightest 
and  purest  light  of  heroism. 

Long,  and  with  reverent  silence  only  broken  by  an  occa- 
sional exclamation  of  wonder,  the  company  gazed  upon  that 
strange  spectacle,  more  sadly  suggestive  than  any  other  of  the 
wonders  of  the  American  continent.  The  voice  of  merriment, 
which  had  been  ringing  so  loudly  but  a  few  moments  before, 
Avas  hushed,  and  tears  lay  nearer  to  the  surface  than  laughter. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise  than  that  the  spectacle,  impressive 
always,  should  blend  itself  with  the  sorrow  of  a  thousand 
hearts  and  the  peril  of  a  land,  and  that  something  of  almost 
superstitious  omen  should  seem  to  lie  in  the  recognition. 
There  were  no  words  to  syllable  the  great  thoughts  of  that 
hour.  How  could  there  be  ?  What  tongue  could  have  spoken 
what  the  heart  so  sadly  reverberated  to  an  inner  sense  that 
was  subtler  and  better  than  hearing  ?  "  H.  T.,"  whose  tongue, 
as  Margaret  Hayley  and  her  companions  heard  it,  had  so  sol- 


270  THE      COWARD. 

emnly  apostrophized  the  iron  face  of  the  Old  Man  of  the  Moun- 
tain in  the  moonlight  of  the  night  before,  stood  silent  and  with 
folded  arms  on  the  end  of  the  piazza,  his  strange,  dark  face 
full  of  a  feeling  that  seemed  sad  enough  for  death  and  yet 
determined  enough  for  a  life  of  almost  terrible  daring.  He 
was  alone.  He  seemed  to  have  made,  even  distantly,  but  one 
acquaintance  since  alighting  at  the  Profile ;  and  that  one  ac- 
quaintance, Halstead  Rowan,  had  not  yet  paid  all  the  penalty 
of  his  mischief  in  a  walk  to  the  Flume.  He  had  no  motive 
to  speak  :  perhaps  under  no  circumstances  could  he  have  done 
so  before  that  company  and  wnth  the  knowledge  that  the  eyes 
of  Margaret  Hayley  might  be  bent  upon  him  from  the  other 
end  of  that  group  of  gazers.  But  the  man  wlio  had  read  the 
patriotic  secret  of  the  Mountain  Sphynx  felt  the  weight  of 
that  hour — who  could  doubt  it  ?  And  if  his  lips  had  spoken, 
would  not  the  words  they  uttered  have  been  something  like 
these,  that  have  bubbled  to  other  lips  and  yet  been  denied 
utterance,  on  the  same  spot  and  since  the  overcasting  of  our 
national  sky  by  that  dark  cloud  of  war  and  that  darker  cloud 
of  divided  feeling,  only  to  be  rolled  away  in  God's  good  time  : 
*'  Yes,  look  upon  the  Dead  Washington,  all  of  you,  and 
prepare  to  bear  the  image  away  and  keep  it  sacred  in  \^our 
heart  of  hearts.  Dead  and  shrouded  he  lies,  w^hose  words 
might  perchance  have  had  power,  at  this  fearful  day  in  our 
history,  to  still  the  turbulent  waves  of  passion  and  make  us 
brothers  once  more.  Dead  and  shrouded,  w^hen  the  day  of 
doom  may  be  near,  and  when  his  sword,  flashing  at  the  head 
of  the  armies  of  the  republic,  might  have  blinded  treason  and 
struck  terror  to  the  heart  of  the  reliellion.  Dead  and  shroiKled, 
to  wake  not  at  the  trump  of  war  or  the  call  of  national  peril. 
Yet  look  down  upon  us  from  the  granite  mountains  that  bore 
thine  image  a  thousand  years  ago  and  will  bear  it  until  tlie 
very  form  and  feature  of  nature  decay — look  down  upon  us 
from  the  heavens  that  are  higher  and  more  enduring  even  than 
the  eternal  hills,  and  bless  us  with  some  ray  of  that  courage 
which  dared  the  iron  rain  of  Princeton — of  that  patient  en- 


THE      COWARD.  271 

durance  which  braved  the  wintry  snow  of  Valley  Forge — of 
that  honesty  which  bent  a  world  in  awe  and  admiration — of 
that  solf-saerificint}:  humility  which  thou<iht  it  but  duty  to  re- 
fuse a  crown  !  Not  in  irreverence  we  speak,  shadow  of  the 
great  dead  1  Thou  didst  live,  and  we  sprang  into  existence 
as  a  nation.  Thou  art  gone,  and  we  wander  in  the  night  and 
darkness  of  hatred,  of  strife,  of  murder — perhaps  even  totter 
to  a  fall  from  which  there  is  no  arising.  If  thou  hast  power 
in  the  eternal  world,  Washington  who  livest,  so  faintly  shad- 
owed by  the  Washington  that  is  dead — save  us  whom  the 
might  of  no  other  nation  can  cast  down — save  us  from  our- 
selves 1" 

Hush  !  the  fancy  so  reverently  assumed  cannot  be  cast  off 
in  a  moment.  Hush  ! — was  not  that  low  rumbling  in  the 
north  which  men  call  thunder,  the  voice  of  the  Giant  of  Mount 
Liberty  turning  suddenly  in  his  grave-clothes  to  answer  the 
appeal  ?  God  ! — if  it  might  be  so  ! — "  Oh,  for  an  hour  of 
Hickory  Jackson  !"  cried  the  agonized  nation  when  the  first 
paralysis  fell  upon  our  men  in  power  :  oh,  for  one  moment  of 
George  Washington  now  ! 

The  Celt  looks  for  the  awakening  of  Brian  Boroihme  from 
his  long  sleep  in  the  Wicklow  mountains,  falsely  called  his 
death,  after  the  red  field  of  Clontarf,  and  for  the  deliverance 
of  Ireland  from  the  Saxon  oppressor,  which  is  to  follow  ;  the 
German  is  still  waiting  for  the  sounding  of  that  horn  which 
is  to  start  Frederick  the  Redbeard  from  his  repose  in  the 
Kypphauser,  where  the  faithless  laid  him  to  rest,  believing  that 
he  was  dead,  after  his  charmed  bath  in  the  Cilician  Cydnus ; 
even  the  old  soldiers  who  guard  the  mighty  dust  of  Napoleon 
beneath  the  dome  of  the  Invalides,  speak  of  the  "Midnight 
Review"  in  other  words  than  those  of  Friederich  Freiligrath 
and  hold  a  dim  impression  that  the  life  of  Austerlitz  and  the 
Pyramids  must  linger  even  after  St.  Helena  :  why  may-not 
the  patriot  heart  of  i\merica  believe  that  the  man  who  of  all 
others  best  represented  the  full  glory  of  a  nation,  is  immortal 
in  body  as  in  spirit,  and  that  the  Father  of  his  Country  will 


272  THE      COWARD. 

some  day  dash  out  from  the  sarcophagus  that  holds  him  pris- 
oner at  Mount  Vernon, — to  shame  recreanc}%  to  hurl  incapa- 
city from  power,  and  to  save,  in  its  dark  hour,  the  fabric  that 
his  great  soul  loved  and  his  great  hand  builded  '{ 

No  ! — that  awful  presence  lies  unmoved  on  its  bier  on  the 
peaks  of  the  mountains,  tlie  blue  sky  the  canopy  of  its  cata- 
falque, the  waving  trees  the  plumes  of  the  warriors  who  guard 
it,  and  the  hoarse  storm  wind  its  requiem.  And  while  it  so 
sleeps,  the  future  of  the  republic,  which  seems  to  us  in  darkness, 
lies  really  in  a  Hand  that  knows  no  death  and  never  changes 
in  its  unfaltering  purpose  I 

But  the  saddest  as  well  as  the  sweetest  things  in  life  have 
an  end,  and  the  halt  of  the  company  at  the  Flume  House, 
that  morning,  supplied  no  exception  to  the  rule.  Just  as  the 
wagons  were  once  more  loaded,  Halstead  Rowan  came  strid- 
ing up,  his  cigar  smoked  out,  and  his  face  the  most  uncon- 
scious imaginable,  and  took  the  seat  which  he  had  not  long 
before  vacated.  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  was  very  busy, 
at  that  period,  looking  after  some  of  the  details  of  arrangement 
of  Master  Brooks  Brooks'  dress,  \vhich  had  become  slightly 
disarranged  ;  and  perhaps  she  did  not  see  him.  Let  us  sup- 
pose so,  for  she  certainly  did  not  notice  her  late  student  in 
geography.  She  was  a  little  red  in  the  face,  which  let  us 
also  suppose  to  have  been  the  effect  of  the  weather  and  not 
of  mortification.  And  so  all  once  more  in  place,  away  dashed 
the  wagons  to  that  marvellous  gap  in  the  mountains 
which  gives  name  to  the  house.  The  road  seemed  very 
rough  and  broken,  the  rises  and  descents  grew  sharper,  and 
the  forest  scenery  wilder.  Galloping  his  four  horses  up  a 
steep  ascent  to  the  left,  each-  driver  vigorously  applied  the 
brake  as  the  wagons  literally  slid  down  the  very  sharpest  bit 
of  road  descent  to  be  found  at  the  Franconia  (except  perhaps 
on  some  portions  of  the  Bald  Mountain) — a  descent  so 
sudden,  and  overhanging  a  ravine  so  frightful,  that  some  of 
the  handsome  eyes  looked  larger  than  ever  for  the  moment, 
all  the    riders   involuntarily  threw   themselves    back  in  the 


T  H  E       C  O  W  A  K  I> .  2  I  o 

laboring  and  creaking  wagons,  and  pretty  little  screams  that 
had  no  affectation  in  them  emancipated  themselves  from  rosy 
lips  and  took  excursions  out  into  the  summer  air.  Then  thun- 
dering over  a  rickety  wooden  bridge,  almost  at  the  bottom  of 
the  ravine,  and  up  another  slight  ascent,  the  wagons  stopped 
under  a  clump  of  wide-spreading  trees  at  a  rough  platform, 
and  disembarked  their  passengers,  leaving  all  to  follow  their 
will  in  examining  that  wonder  of  nature  in  one  of  her  frolio 
moods. 

And  what  was  the  Flume  like,  to  those  who  that  day  saw 
it  for  the  first  time  ?  An  irregular  crack  or  fissure  in  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  half  a  mile  long,  and  from  ten  to  fifty 
feet  in  depth,  such  as  the  wedge  of  some  enraged  Titan  might 
have  made  when  he  had  determined  to  split  the  earth  asunder, 
and  used  the  thunder  as  a  beetle.  Whether  he  was  frightened 
by  the  big  oval  boulder  which  fell  into  the  fissure  half  w^ay 
up,  and  has  ever  since  hung  suspended  there,  touching  only 
at  the  points,  and  apparently  ready  to  fall  at  any  moment — 
who  shall  say  ?  At  all  events,  if  he  intended  to  disrupt  the 
earth  he  desisted  for  the  time  ;  and  let  us  be  duly  thankful ! 

Walking  laboriously  over  the  broad  flat  stone  platform  at 
the  mouth  of  the  gorge,  with  the  thin  sheet  of  bright  water 
straggling  over  it,  then  ascending  the  rough  stairs  of  board 
that  lay  irregularly  on  either  side,  and  anon  climbing  care- 
fully over  the  mossed  and  slippery  rocks  that  offered  such 
precarious  foothold,  the  party  ascended  the  Flume  and  stood 
at  last  between  walls  of  less  than  six  feet  separation,  the 
rock  rising  fifty  or  sixty  feet  on  either  side,  and  almost  as 
square  as  if  cut  by  the  chisel  of  an  artificer,  impassable  slimy 
boulders  piled  in  confusion  far  ahead,  the  rough  little  stream 
tumbling  away  through  tiie  wilderness  of  stones  beneath,  and 
a  ciiill  dampness  like  that  of  the  grave  striking  in  to  the 
very  life-blood  of  those  who  had  been  imprudent  enough  to 
tempt  the  mountains  without  the  protection  of  thick  garments 
and  warm  flannels.  Once,  a  little  white  Blossom  of  the 
company,  just  unfolding  to  the  June  luxuriance  of  woman- 
17 


274  T  H  K      cow  A  R  D. 

hood,  and  whose  name  has  no  interest  in  this  narration,  was 
tempted  by  a  mischievous  relative  and  protector  to  try  walk- 
ing a  rounded  and  slippery  log  that  bridged  the  chasm,  a 
few  feet  above  the  rough  rocks  and  water  below  ;  but  her 
nerves  failed  and  hev  head  grew  dizzy  when  she  was  half  way 
across,  her  lip  quivered  and  then  fluttered  out  a  little  cry  of 
alarm,  and  her  miijciiievous  tempter  retraced  his  own  steps 
just  in  time  to  catch  her  and  keep  her  from  an  ice-cold  bath 
and  limbs  bruised  on  the  rough  stones  lying  in  the  stream 
underneath. 

There  was  another  log  spanning  the  Flume,  a  little  higher 
up  the  chasm,  and  at  a  very  different  altitude  from  terra 
firnia — hanging,  in  fact,  like  a  stout  black  fence-rail,  not  less 
than  eighty  or  an  hundred  feet  in  the  air.  Encircled  by  tho 
eternal  dampness  rising  out  of  the  Flume,  it  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  slimy  and  slippery  ;  and  only  a  moment  before 
the  nameless  Blossom  tempted  the  log  below,  some  of  tho 
company  had  looked  up  and  remarked  with  a  shudder  that  a 
firm  foot  and  cool  head  would  b^  necessary  for  the  man  who 
should  tread  over  that  frail  bridge  with  its  crumbling  bark. 
As  if  the  two  had  some  mysterious  connection,  the  moment 
after  Blossom's  misadventure,  some  one  heard  voices  in  that 
direction  and  looked  up  again.  Two  figures  stood  upon  the 
brink,  and  not  so  far  away  but  that  at  least  sorae  of  the  group 
below  recognized  them  as  "  H.  T."  and  Halstead  Rowan, 
who  had  left  the  rest  as  they  abandoned  the  wagons  and 
commenced  ascending  the  gorge. 

Among  those  w4io' looked  up  was  Margaret  Hayley,  and 
her  eyes  were  among  those  that  recognized  the  two  figures. 
What  those  people  were  to  her,  or  why  she  said  "  Look  !"  in 
a  quick  and  even  agitated  voice,  probably  the  young  girl 
could  have  told  quite  as  little  as  either  writer  or  reader ;  but 
such  was  the  fact,  and  the  motion  of  her  eyes  at  the  moment, 
accompanied  by  the  word,  drew  the  regards  of  both  Captain 
Hector  Coles  and  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley,  w^ho  stood  beside  her 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Flume.     They,  too,  with  the  others, 


THE      COWARD.  275 

hoiird  the  words  and   saw  tlie  action  that  immediately  fol- 
lowed. 

Ilalstead  llowan  hud  one  foot  thrust  forward  on  the  log, 
his  other  on  the  firm  ground  behind.  "  II.  T."  stood  on  the 
rock  beside  him,  making  no  motion  to  cross.  There  was  evi- 
dently a  banter  between  them,  and  though  they  were  probably 
not  aware  of  the  fact,  their  words  were  readily  distinguish- 
able beneath. 

'*  None  of  my  business,  I  suppose  ;  but  it  is  folly  !"  they 
heard  spoken  by  the  voice  of  "  H.  T." 

"  I  suppose  that  every  thing  is  folly  which  goes  out  of  the 
hum-drum  track  of  every-day  life  !"  they  heard  Rowan  reply. 
"But  I  like  folly,  and  so  here  goes  !     AVill  you  follow  me  ?" 
"  Without  wanting  to  go  over  ? — no  I"  was  the  answer. 
The  words  had  scarcely  left  his  lips  when  llowan  sprang 
forward  on  the  log,  stepping  lightly,  but  balancing  himself 
with  some  care,  towards  the  other  side.     Insensibly  all  who 
saw  him  held  their  breath.     If  he  should  be  correct  enough 
in  his  balance,  who  could  say  that  the  log  might  not  be   a 
rotten  shell,  ready  to  fall  under  the  heavy  weight  of  the  stout 
athlete  ?     In  fact,  he  had  scarcely  reached  the  middle  when 
the  tottering  fabric  seemed  to  give  way  and  come  top})ling 
down  into  the  chasm  below.     Not  in  reality  ;  for  had  it  done 
so,  the  career  of  the  Illinoisan,  with  whom  we   have  by  no 
means  finished,  would   have   been  ended  for  all  time.     The 
startling  appearance  was  created  by  the  dislodging  of  a  large 
shell  of  the  rotten  bark  by  his.  foot,  more  than  half  costing 
him  his  balance,  and  bringing  out  from  the  group  beneath  a 
chorus  of  cries  that  might  well  have  disturbed  what  remained 
of  equilibrium.     One  cry  sounded  sharper  and  higher  than 
all  the  rest:  there  were  those  present  who  knew  from  whose 
lips  it  came  :  enough  for  us  to  say  that  it  did  not  come  from 
those  of  Margaret  Hayley,  whose  eyes  were  still  turned  up- 
ward with  a  feeling  in  them  very  different  from  fear.     Before 
the  cry  had  fairly  died   away,  the  peril,  whatever  it  might 
have  been,  was  past,  and  Halstead  Rowan  stood  on  the  other 


276  THE      COWAKD. 

side  of  the  cbasm,  bowing  to  the  grroup  wlio  had  been  ob- 
serving him,  as  he  learned  from  the  cries,  at  the  bottom. 
The\'  saw  "  H.  T."  turn  and  walk  awa}^  at  the  same  moment ; 
and  then,  drawing  a  long  breath,  Margaret  Hayley  said,  much 
more  to  herself  than  to  her  immediate  companions : 

"What  a  thing  beyond  all  admiration  is  that  courage  !" 

"  AYhich  our  other  friend  does  not  seem  to  be  troubled  with 
in  any  great  degree  !"  said  Captain  Hector  Coles,  finishing 
out  the  sentence  with  a  tone  perceptibly  sneering.  Margaret 
looked  round  at  him  with  a  look  which  might  have  been  one 
of  inquiry,  then  turned  awayher  face  again  and  said  : 

"  No,  I  suppose  not !  Not  more  than  half  the  world  can 
be  demigods  :  the  others  must  be  common  people,  or  worse  I" 

Whether  Captain  Hector  Coles  liked  the  tone  of  the  replv, 
or  not,  is  uncertain.  At  all  events  he  scowled  a  little  and 
said  nothing  more,  while  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  stole  a  look 
into' the  face  of  her  daughter  which  had  no  hypocrisy  in  it  and 
was  full  of  wonder  and  trouble. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  company  were  all  again  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Flume,  and  there  Halstead  Rowan,  a  second 
time  the  hero  of  the  day,  joined  them.  "  H.  T."  did  not  make 
his  appearance :  he  had  struck  across,  the  Illinoisan  said,  with- 
out waiting  for  him,  over  the  almost  impassable  fallen  timber 
and  through  the  spruce  thickets,  by  the  cross-path  to  the 
Pool.  A  few  minutes  more  sufficed  to  re-seat  the  group  in 
their  wagons  and  to  deposit  them  once  more  at  the  door  of 
the  Flume  House,  whence  they  took  their  way  on  foot,  strag- 
gling in  every  picturesque  variety  of  locomotion  towards  that 
equally-curious  pendant  of  the  Flume  which  is  often  missed 
by  those  who  visit  the  better-known  wonder. 

The  Pool  lay  all  alone,  uniil  this  somewhat  numerous  com- 
pany came  to  disturb  its  solitude.  A  singular  object  indeed 
— an  exaggeration  of  all  the  other  mountain  amphitheatre 
fountains,  nearly  round,  a  score  or  more  of  yards  in  diameter, 
with  the  toe  of  the  horse-shoe  scooped  out  of  a  solid  rock 
thirty  or  forty  feet  in  height,  smoothed  and  rounded  as  if  cut 


THE      COWARD.  277 

by  human  hands,  a  bright,  clear  stream  dashing  down  at  that 
point,  the  rocks  further  away  from  the  toe  rising  broken  and 
jagged  to  the  height  of  perhaps  an  hundred  feet,  and  the  mode 
of  approach  of  the  passengers  a  jagged  line  of  ricketty  steps, 
terribly  perpendicular,  sloping  down  from  that  highest  point 
and  presenting  no  temptations  to  the  decrepit  or  the  nervous. 
At  the  bottom  of  this  singular  basin  the  water,  bright  and  clear 
in  the  few  places  where  it  ran  shallow  over  the  bleached 
stones,  but  under  the  shadow  of  the  ledge  so  deep  as  to  seem 
black  as  midnight.  , 

"  Nobody  here  ! — it  doesn't  seem  like  old  times  !"  said  an 
elderly  gentleman  who  had  visited  the  Pool  many  times  in 
other  days, — as  the  ladies  were  with  some  difficulty  assisted 
down  the  steps.  "  No  boatman,  and  not  even  a  boat  I  Where 
is  Charon,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  where  is  Merrill  ?"  asked  another.  ''  The  man 
with  the  leaky  scow  and  the  white  muslin  awning,  who  al- 
ways charged  a  York  shilling  for  ferrying  people  over  to  the 
Elysian  Fields  lying  among  the  rocks  and  logs  yonder." 

"I  remember,  once,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  that  while 
his  lieutenant  paddled  us  around  under  the  spray  of  the  fall 
yonder,  and  over  to  the  steps  which  used  to  hang  from  the  rocks 
there  on  the  opposite  side,  Merrill  read  us  an  autograph  letter 
from  Queen  Victoria,  dated  in  the  kitchen  at  Buckingham 
Palace  while  the  august  lady  said  that  she  was  rolling  apple- 
dumplings, — and  also  gave  us  a  lecture  on  geography,  in 
which  he  proved  that  this  spot  was  the  very  centre  of  the 
earth,  from  which  all  latitude  and  longitude  ought  to  be  cal- 
culated." 

"  Well,  he  was  right  in  some  degree,"  said  Halstead 
Rowan,  who  stood  near,  and  who  fixed  his  regards  at  the 
same  moment  on  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  still  looking 
after  the  welfare  of  that  interesting  child.  There  was  not 
even  the  suspicion  of  a  smile  upon  his  face  as  he  went  on, 
and  there  certainly  was  not  upon  the  face  of  the  lady  for 
whose  benefit  the  discourse  was  evidentl}'  intended.     "  I  do 


278  THE      COWARD. 

not  know  about  the  latitude  and  longitude,  but  this  Pool  ig 
certainly  the  centre  of  the  earth  and  exactly  opposite  to 
Cliina,  so  that  a  plummet,  with  o.  line  long  enough,  dropped 
here,  would  be  certain  to  come  out  somewhere  on  the  shores 
of  the  Hoangho  or  the  Kiangku." 

"  Nonsense  1"  said  one  grave  lady  (not  Mrs.  Brooks  Cun- 
ninghame)  who  did  not  appreciate  the  joke. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  madajue  !"  said  the  scamp,  who  thereupon 
turned  his  battery  at  once  in  her  direction.  "  There  is  no 
doubt  whatever  of  the  truth  of  the  statement,  for  I  have  been 
here  myself  when  the  defunc*  pig-tailed  Chinamen  came  pop- 
ping up,  who  had  committed  suicide  by  drowning  themselves 
on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  on  account  of  the  cruelty  of  a 
copper-colored  divinity  with  almond  eyes  and  feet  the  size 
and  shape  of  the  last  dumpling  in  the  pot,  or  a  trifling  defi- 
ciency in  the  rat-crop  or  the  dog-census." 

**  Impudence  !"  muttered  that  lady,  who  seemed  to  regard 
thre  "  whopper"  as  a  personal  insult ;  but  the  majority  of  the 
company  appeared  to  view  the  affair  in  a  very  different  light 
and  to  be  rather  pleased  than  otherwise  with  the  go-ahead 
fellow  who  could  walk  over  verbal  and  physical  bridges  with 
the  same  charming  recklessness.  It  may  be  anticipating  to 
say  that  there  was  one  among  them,  whose  face  had  paled 
when  he  trod  the  log  over  the  Flume,  and  who  could  not 
even  laugh  at  the  light  words  which  she  otherwise  enjoyed, — 
so  much  deep  and  new  and  strange  feeling  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  the  interest.  And  it  may  not  be  anticipating,  in  the  minds 
of  any  who  have  perused  the  late  foregoing  pages  with  due 
attention,  to  say  that  that  silent,  thoughtful,  observing  one 
was  Clara  Yanderlyn,  between  whom  and  the  Illinoisan  there 
yawned  a  gulf  of  circumstance  and  position  so  wide  and 
deep  that  no  one  but  a  madman  (or  what  is  madder  still — a 
mad  ivoman)  could  possibly  have  dreamed  of  stepping  over  it. 


THE      COWARU.  279 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


A  DisASTm  TO  Master  Brooks   Buooes  Ctjnninqhamk- 

EXIT  INTO  THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  P00t_  NOBOI.Y  THAT 
CO.LB  SVVIM,  A.I,  MAKOARET  Ha.LEV  ,N  ExOTEMENT- 
"  H  T  "  IN  HIS  ELEMENT,  IN  TWO  SENSES— ANOTHER  InTRO- 
:,UCTION  AND  A  NEW  HeRO-ScENES  ,N  THE  PROFILE  PAR- 
MR-llOWAN   AND    ClAEA  YaNDEELYN-THE   InSULT. 


"BCT  What  has  become  of  the  crazy  old  philosopher.' 
asked  the  same  elderly  gentleman  who  had  first  Introduced 
the  subject,_only  a  moment  after  Halstead  Rowan  had  do- 
livered  himself  of  his  speculations  concerning  the  centre  of 
the  earth,  China  and  suicide,  given  at  the  close  of  the  la=,t 

"^'-S'"  answered  Rowan,  "  I  was  asking  Jennings  about 
bim  this  morning,  before  we  came  away  from  the  Profile^ 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  mode  in  which  the  two  Irishmen 
conducted  their  little   debate,  which  ended  in  a  couple  of 

broken  heads  ?" 

"I  do  not  know!"  laughed  the  old  gentleman. 

.<  Well  thev  debated  phvsically-they  held  what  they  calh^d 
a  little  'd'ishc^ssion  wid  sticks' !  Poor  old  Merrill  got  into  a 
debate  with  the  Sheriff  of  Coos  County,  last  spring  a  year 
Jennings  tells  me,  and  he  carried  it  on  with  an  a.r.  nearly 
killing  the  official.  The  result  of  all  which  was  that  he  was 
lng<^ed  oif  to  jail  at  Wells  River  and  the  Pool  '^  bereaved. 

^.  Sorrv  that  his  boat  is  not  here,  at  least,"  said  the  old  gen- 
tleman. '"We  have  just  a  nice  party  for  circumnavigating 
the  Pool :  and  I  do  not  know  that  even  the  letter  from  Queen 
Victoria  and  the  lecture  would  be  so  much  of  a  bore,  now 
that  thei-e  is  no  danger  of  them."  . 

"  Couldn't  manage  to  get  up  a  boat,  unless  we  >n\P™^'^*'^ 
one  out  of  a  los,"  said  the  lUinoisan,  "  and  that  would  be  a  lit- 
tle unstable,  I>ancy.     And  by  the  way,  I  think  I  never  saw 


280  THE      COWARD. 

a  place  more  daDgerous-looking  for  a  sudden  tumble  than  that 
deep  black  pool,  or  one  more  difficult  to  get  out  of  than  it 
would  prove  without  something  afloat  to  depend  upon.  So 
we  must  give  it  up — the  glory  of  the  Pool  has  departed  !  Sic 
transit  gloria  big  hole  in  the  woods  !" 

At  that  moment,  and  when  the  attention  of  the  whole  com- 
pany had  been  drawn  to  the  peculiar  depth  and  quality  of  the 
Pool  by  the  last  observations — an  event  took  place  which 
may  or  may  not  have  been  paralleled  in  the  earlier  history  of 
that  peculiar  wonder  of  nature.  Sambo,  of  those  days  when 
the  negro  only  half  ruled  the  great  Western  republic  instead 
of  ruling  it  altogether, — related  a  story  about  a  'coon  hunt  of 
his,  in  which  an  episode  occurred  at  about  the  time  when  be 
had  climbed  out  upon  an  extending  limb  that  was  supposed 
to  haye  the  'coon  at  the  end.  "Just  then,"  said  Sambo, 
graphically — "just  then  I  heard  sumfin  drap,  and  come  to 
look, 'twas  disyer  nigger  I"  The  party  of  visitors  at  the 
Pool  heard  "  sumfin  drap"  about  as  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly ;  and  w^hen  they  had  time  to  look  around  them,  they 
discovered  that  one  of  their  number  was  missing — not  a  very 
valuable  member  of  the  combination,  but  still  one  that  was 
supposed  to  have  the  usual  immortal  soul  and  antipathy  to 
sudden  death. 

There  never  was  a  troublesome  boy  of  an  age  correspond- 
ing to  that  of  Master  Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame,  who  did 
not  have  the  propensity  for  climbing  developed  in  exact  pro- 
portion to  the  incapacity  for  climbing  at  all  ;  and  Master 
Brooks  Brooks  had  not  done  half  mischief  enough  that  morn- 
ing to  be  content  without  making  another  effort.  As  the 
party  climbed  down  to  the  Pool,  some  of  the  members  had 
spoken  of  the  clearness  of  the  water  and  the  coolness  which 
it  was  said  to  possess  even  in  the  heat  of  midsummer ;  and 
one  of  the  ladies  had  extracted  from  her  reticule  one  of  those 
telescopic  ring  driuking-cups  of  Britannia  which  are  found  so 
convenient  in  touring  or  camping-out.  Captain  Hector  Coles 
had  volunteered  to  play  Ganymede  to  the  rest  of  the  com- 


THE       COWARD.  281 

pany,  and  stepping  down  to  the  edge  of  tlic  Tool,  balanced 
himself  witli  one  foot  on  a  projecting  stone,  stooped  down 
and  dipped  up  some  of  the  sparkling  coolness,  which  was 
thereupon  passed  around  from  hand  to  hand  and  from  lip 
to  lip.  That  done,  Master  Brooks  Brooks  had  been  allowed 
to  possess  himself  of  the  cup,  very  much  to  the  disgust  of  the 
owner,  but  inevitably — and  to  make  various  demonstrations 
with  it,  around  the  verge  of  the  water.  For  a  moment  every 
one  had  lost  sight  of  him— his  careful  mother  included  ;  and 
during  that  moment  he  had  climbed  round  to  the  western  side 
of  the  Pool,  on  the  high  rocks,  where  he  stood  brandishing 
the  cup  in  a  series  of  motions  which  varied  between  mischief 
and  idiocy.  Then  and  there  an  accident,  not  uncommon  to 
persons  who  climb  to  high  places  and  are  not  careful  of  their 
footing  there,  had  happened  to  the  young  scion  of  the  baronial 
house  of  Cunninghame,  who,  losing  balance  in  one  of  his 
gyrations,  tumbled  down  some  twenty  or  thirty  feet  of  rock 
and  went  splash  !  into  the  Pool,  just  where  the  waters  seemed 
deepest,  darkest  and  most  unfathomable  ! 

Exit  from  view  Master  Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame,  with 
a  fair  prospect,  to  all  appearance,  that  he  would  carry  out  the 
laughable  theory  of  Halstead  Rowan,  and  if  he  ever  again 
came  to  light  at  all,  do  so  in  a  drowned  condition  at  the  an- 
tipodes. Droll  enough,  in  a  certain  sense,  but  by  no  means 
droll  in  another,  for  that  he  would  be  drowned,  even  in  that 
insignificant  little  puddle  of  w^ater,  was  almost  beyond  doubt, 
and  there  were  supposed  to  be  maternal  feelings  even  be- 
neath the  ridiculous  finery  of  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  ! 
All  heard  the  cry  of  fright  that  he  gave  in  falling,  and  the 
splash  as  he  struck  the  water  ;  and  at  least  a  part  of  the  com- 
pany not  only  saw  him  disappear  beneath  the  surface,  but 
caught  glimpses  of  him  as  he  went  on  down — down — down 
towards  the  bottom  with  the  unerring  steadiness  of  a  stone. 

They  saw  him  sink,  but  they  did  not  see  him  rise  again — 
not  even  in  the  time  which  should  have  secured  that  result. 
Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  uttered  a  scream  when  she  saw 


282  THE      C  O  W  A  K  D  . 

the  boy  strike  the  water,  then  yelled  out:  "Patsey !  oh,  my 
poor  Patsey !"  an  exclamation  entirely  enigmatical  as  refer- 
ring to  a  person  bearing  no  such  name, — then  finally  fell  back 
into  the  arms  of  one  of  the  old  gentlemen  in  such  a  way  as 
seriously  to  threaten  his  tumbling  in  after  the  boy,  and  with- 
out the  least  necessity  for  shamming  nervousness  to  ape  the 
*'  quality."     She  had  indubitably  fainted. 

The  situation  was  a  peculiar  one.  Scarcely  twenty  seconds 
had  elapsed  since  the  boy's  fall,  but  an  hour  seemed  to  have 
passed.  He  did  not  rise.  It  was  likely  that  he  must  have 
been  killed  in  the  fall  or  struck  a  rock  below  and  crushed  his 
poor  little  head.  Still  other  seconds,  growing  to  more  than 
a  minute,  and  he  did  not  rise.  It  was  beyond  doubt  that  he 
would  never  rise  again,  alive.  And  what  could  be  done  to 
save  him  ?  Nothing — literally  nothing,  as  it  appeared.  All 
the  party  were  ladies,  except  five  men — Captain  Hector  Coles, 
Halstead  Rowan  and  three  others,  all  the  latter  white-haired 
and  past  the  day  for  heroic  exposure.  Halstead  Rowan  had 
his  wounded  hand  wrapped  in  a  heavy  bandage  which  would 
have  disabled  him  in  the  water  as  thoroughly  as  if  he  had 
lost  the  limb  at  the  elbow.  For  either  of  the  old  men  to 
plunge  into  the  Pool  would  have  been  suicide.  Margaret 
Hayley  stood  beside  Captain  Hector  Coles,  the  only  young 
and  unwounded  man,  when  the  accident  occurred  ;  and  after 
one  moment  her  eyes  turned  upon  him  with  a  glance  that  be 
too  well  understood. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it,  but  I  cannot  swim  one  stroke  !"  he 
replied  to  that  glance  of  half  appeal  and  half  command.  The 
glance — unreasonably  enough,  of  course — expressed  some- 
thing else  the  instant  after. 

"  Oh,  shame  ! — can  nothing  be  done  to  save  him  ?"  she 
cried  with  clasped  hands  and  in  a  tone  that  manifested  quite 
as  much  of  the  feeling  of  mortification  as  of  anxiety.  At 
that  period  nearly  all  the  women  present  broke  out  into  cries 
of  terror,  as  if  help  could  be  brought  to  the  helpless  by  the 
appealing  voice. 


T  11  E      CO  VV  A  KL>.  283 

"  Good  heavens,  ladies,  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  ''II.  T."  that  spoke,  and  the  man  of 
the  initials  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  Pool,  where  he  had 
emerged  from  his  laborious  walk  over  fallen  trees  and  broken 
rocks  from  the  Fhime.  He  had  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  was 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  hot  brow. 

Margaret  Hayley,  more  moved  beyond  herself  than  any 
of  the  others  present  (the  poor  mother  had  not  yet  recovered 
consciousness)  was  the  first  to  answer;  though  she  little 
tiiought  that  perhaps  the  destiny  of  a  whole  life  was  involved 
in  the  few  words  then  to  be  spoken, 

''  Oh,  sir,  if  you  can  swim,  for  heaven's  sake  try  to  save 
that  boy  !  He  has  fallen  into  the  Pool,  there — there — "and 
she  pointed  with  her  hand  to  the  very  depth  of  the  dark  water 
— "  and  he  must  be  at  the  bottom  !" 

"  He  in  at  the  bottom,  without  doubt,  if  he  has  fallen  in  !" 
was  the  answer.  "  I  saw  him  filling  his  pockets  with  bright 
stones,  up  at  the  Flume,  and  he  has  probably  enough  of  them 
about  him  to  keep  him  at  the  bottom  till  doomsday."  Then, 
for  the  first  time,  the  anxious  watchers  knew  the  reason  why 
even  in  the  death-struggle  the  body  had  not  risen — the  poor 
little  fellow  had  been  loading  himself  down  with  those  tempt- 
ing, fatal  stones,  to  make  more  certain  the  doom  that  was 
coming  ! 

"  Can  you  swim,  sir  ?  I  asked  you  if  you  could  swim  !" 
Margaret  Hayley 's  voice  rung  across  the  Pool,  with  no  little 
impatient  petulance  blended  with  the  evident  anxiety ;  and 
she  seemed  totally  to  forget,  as  people  will  forget  on  some 
occasions,  that  she  had  never  been  introduced  to  the  man 
whom  she  interrogated  so  sharply. 

"  I  can  swim  !"  was  the  answer  and  the  only  answer. 
With  the  word  he  threw  off  his  coat  and  kicked  off  the  con- 
venient Congress  gaiters  that  enveloped  his  feet ;  and  in  ten 
seconds  more  he  had  leaped  high  into  the  air  and  headlong 
into  the  dark  waters  at  the  spot  indicated  by  the  hand  of 
Margaret.     So  sudden   had   been  all   this,  that  scarcely  one 


284:  THE      COWARD. 

realized,  until  he  had  disappeared,  the  whole  peril  he  en- 
countered. 

"  He  will  strike  the  stony  bottom  and  kill  himself !"  said 
one  of  the  elderly  gentlemen. 

"  Hot  as  he  was,  he  will  die  with  the  chill,  if  he  ever  comes 
out !"  said  the  second,  who  had  medical  warrant  for  knowing 
the  probable  consequences  of  such  an  act.  Whereupon  all 
began  to  realize  that  two  deaths  instead  of  one  migiit  be  the 
probable  event;  and  Margaret  Hayley  set  her  teeth  hard  and 
clasped  her  hands  in  the  agonized  thought  that  perhaps  her 
words  had  driven  him  to  the  rash  leap,  and  that  he  must  be 
either  that  thing  for  which  she  had  been  so  long  looking,  a 
man  incarnately  brave, — or  willing  to  go  out  of  his  own 
nature  at  her  command,  after  less  than  a  single  day's  ac- 
quaintance— the  latter  feeling  one  not  slow  to  awaken  other 
and  warmer  companions  in  the  bosom  of  a  true  woman  ! 

After  those  words  had  been  spoken,  dead  silence  reigned 
except  as  broken  by  a  sob  of  deadly  anxiety  from  one  of  the 
ladies  who  could  not  control  the  fear  that  oppressed  her. 
And  how  long  that  silence  of  oppressive  anxiety  lasted  !  It 
might  have  been  a  moment — it  might  have  been  five  years, 
for  any  capacity  of  measurement  given  to  a  single  member  of 
that  waiting  group  scattered  over  the  rocks.  Only  the 
whilome  watcher  by  a  sick  bed  which  might  be  one  of  death, 
at  the  instant  when  the  crisis  of  disease  was  reached  and  the 
next  minute  was  to  decide  between  a  life  of  love  and  useful- 
ness and  the  drear  silence  of  the  grave — only  the  man  who 
has  lifted  his  faint  signal  of  distress  on  a  drifting  wreck  at 
sea,  when  a  sail  was  in  sight,  the  last  crust  eaten,  and  night 
and  storm  coming  to  end  all, — only  one  or  the  other  of  these 
can  realize  the  long  agony  of  such  moments  and  the  eternity 
which  can  be  compressed  into  the  merest  fraction  of  time  ! 

They  had  perhaps  waited  sixty  seconds  after  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  would-be  rescuer  beneath  the  dark  waters  of  the 
Pool,  and  already  every  one  had  given  him  up  for  lost, — ■ 
when  a  ripple  agitated  its  surface,  a  white-sleeved   arm  came 


THE      COWARD.  285 

up,  then  a  figure  bearing  anotlier.  It  battled  wearily  towardri 
the  phoaler  part  of  the  Pool,  touched  bottom  and  struggled 
shoreward,  dropped  its  burthen  with  one  glance  upon  it,  and 
then  toppled  over — both  out  of  danger  from  the  water,  but 
both  api)arently  dead  alike  I 

In  an  instant  all  those  above  had  rushed  down  to  the  mar- 
gin, and  while  some  caught  the  drowned  bo}^  and  attempted 
to  restore  the  life  that  seemed  so  hopelessly  fled,  others,  and 
the  medical  man  among  them,  devoted  more  than  equal 
anxiety  to  the  man  who  appeared  to  have  paid  so  dearly  for 
his  heroism.  He  was  senseless,  but  his  pulse  still  beat — the 
doctor  discovered  so  much  ;  and  a  fairer  hand  than  that  of 
the  doctor  sought  the  heart  and  found  that  the  motion  of  that 
mysterious  red  current  which  bears  the  whole  of  life  upon  its 
bosom  was  not  yet  stilled  forever.  The  hand  was  that  of 
Margaret  Hayley,  who  had  drawn  the  head  of  the  half- 
drowned  man  upon  one  knee  while  she  kneeled  on  the  bare 
stone  with  the  other,  and  who  seemed  to  feel  that  if  that  man 
died  his  blood  would  be  upon  her  head  and  upon  her  soul  I 
A  dangerous  position,  Margaret  Hayley,  whether  he  lives  or 
dies,  for  the  w^oman  who  but  yesterday  dreamed  that  she 
kept  her  early  love  still  undimmed  in  her  heart,  however  the 
object  of  it  might  be  clouded  in  shame  and  banished  from  her 
presence  forever  I  Is  that  new  ideal  found  already,  and 
found  in  a  man  so  wrapped  in  mystery  that  his  very  name 
has  never  yet  been  spoken  in  your  presence  ?  ■  Fie  !  fie  !  if 
this  is  the  eternity  of  love,  about  which  lovers  themselves 
have  raved  and  poets  worse  raved  in  their  behalf,  any  time 
these  past  five  hundred  years  I 

There  is  no  intention  of  mystifying  this  scene,  or  even  of 
prolonging  it.  Whatever  might  have  been  the  danger,  that 
danger  was  past,  and  the  shadow  of  death  did  not  loom  ghastly 
out  of  it.  The  vigorous  shaking,  rolling  and  rubbing  to 
which  the  inanimate  Master  Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame  was 
exposed,  under  hands  which  proved  themselves  expert  in  that 
operation  if  in  no  other,  soon  restored  the  breath  to  his  nostrils, 


286  THE      COWARD. 

though  it  left  him  a  limp  rag:  to  be  taken  up  in  arms  and 
carried  away  by  his  now  recovered  and  half-addled  mother. 
There  was  a  sharp  cut  upon  his  head,  and  the  blood  flowed 
freely,  but  the  wound  had  no  depth  or  danger.  The  insen.si- 
bility  which  had  fallen  upon  his  preserver,  induced  much 
more  as  was  believed  by  the  sudden  chill  of  that  ice-cold 
water  acting  upon  a  heated  system,  than  even  by  his  long 
exertion  in  recovering  the  little  fellow's  body  from  the  bottom 
of  the  pool— this  soon  gave  way  beneath  the  continued 
rubbing  bestowed  upon  wrists  and  temples,  and  the  warmth 
induced  by  the  wrapping  of  all  the  shawls  and  mantles  in  the 
company  about  his  shoulders  and  feet.  He  moaned  once, 
only  a  few  minutes  after  the  efforts  for  his  resuscitation  had 
been  commenced,  and  a  moment  or  two  later  opened  his  eyes 
and  saw  what  face  bent  over  him  most  closely.  Something 
ehe  than  the  chafing  and  the  unaccustomed  robes  then  sent 
blood  to  cheek  and  brow ;  and  with  a  strength  which  no  one 
had  believed  him  to  possess  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  to  sink 
down  again  the  moment  after  into  a  sitting  posture  but  un- 
supported. 

In  that  position  he  for  the  first  time  appeared  to  glance 
round  upon  the  company  and  to  recognize  the  whole  situation. 
Especially  his  eye  fell  upon  Captain  Hector  Coles,  who 
stood  at  a  little  distance,  his  arms  folded  and  nothing  in  his 
appearance  indicating  that  he  had  taken  any  part  in  the 
labors  of  resHiscitation,  while  his  face  looked  undeniably 
saturnine  and  ill-humored.  Had  the  mere  fact  that  the  head 
of  a  half-drowned  man  lay  for  a  few  moments  on  the  knees 
of  a  lady  supposed  to  be  under  his  peculiar  protection,  so 
much  moved  the  gallant  warrior  of  the  Union  army,  or  was 
something  more  decided  lying  at  the  bottom  of  his  obser- 
vance ?  Perhaps  words  already  spoken  during  the  late 
progress  of  this  narration  may  have  indicated  the  state  of 
feeling  in  the  breast  of  the  captain  :  if  not,  future  develop- 
ments will  have  the  duty  of  making  plain  all  that  may  be 
yet  doubtful  in  that  regard.     At  all  events,  something  in 


THE      COWARD.  287 

that  man's  face  gave  to  the  brown  cheeks  of  "  H.  T."  a 
warmer  color  than  they  had  before  attained,  and  to  his  frame 
a  strength  which  sent  him  once  more  to  his  feet,  throwing 
off  the  shawls  and  mantles  which  enveloped  him,  and  stand- 
ing bare-foot  and  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  hair  yet  plastered 
and  dripping,  his  garments  yet  clinging  to  his  person,  the 
most  unpicturesque  of  figures,  and  yet  one  of  the  noblest 
possible  to  employ  the  artist's  pencil — a  man  fresh  from  one 
of  the  great  perils  of  disinterested  benevolence. 

Certainly  Margaret  Hayley  saw  nothing  antagonistic  to 
romance  in  that  tall,  erect  figure,  half-draped  though  it  was 
and  shivering  yet  with  cold  and  weakness.  It  is  not  im- 
possible that  the  dusky  brown  of  the  face  glowed  with  some- 
thing of  a  sacred  light,  to  her  eyes — a  subject  for  her  waiting 
hero-worship,  after  that  sad  feeling  of  an  opposite  character 
which  it  had  so  lately  been  her  duty  to  manifest.  Nothing 
else  than  such  an  estimation  could  well  explain,  in  a  woman 
of  her  overweening  pride,  movements  which  took  place  im- 
mediately after,  and  which  bore  their  fruit,  at  no  distant  day, 
in  placing  her  in  a  position  of  such  terrible  conflict  wnth 
herself  that  no  calamity  occurring  beneath  the  waters  of  the 
Pool  but  might  have  been  reckoned  a  mercy  in  comparison. 

Halstead  Rowan,  too  sure  of  his  admiration  of  the  conduct 
of  his  new  friend  to  be  in  a  hurry  about  expressing  it,  had 
done  what  his  wounded. hand  did  not  prevent  his  doing,  by 
springing  across  the  stream  below  and  bringing  the  discarded 
shoes  and  coat  from  the  rock  where  they  lay.  All  the  rest, 
except  poor  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  yet  busy  with  her 
partially  resuscitated  boy,  crowded  round  the  new  hero  of 
the  hour  to  offer  their  thanks  and  congratulations  ;  but  it 
was  Margaret  Hayley  who  took  him  by  the  hand  as  he  stood, 
unmindful  of  the  scowd  of  Captain  Hector  Coles  that  gloomed 
upon  her,  and  said  : 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir,  by  what  name  to  thank  you — " 

"I  believe  I  am  right  in  calling  you' Miss  Hayley,"  wa.3 
the  answer,  in  a  voice  as  yet  somewhat  weak  and  tremulous. 


288  T  H  K      cow  A  It  D. 

"My  own  Dame  is  Horace  TowDsend,  and  my  business  is 
that  of  a  lawyer  at — at  Cincinnati."  So  we,  like  those  of  the 
company  who  had  noticed  the  initials  without  taking  the 
trouble  to  possess  themselves  of  the  whole  name  by  the 
arrival-book  at  the  office,  have  the  blanks  filled  at  last,  and 
may  discard  the  use  of  the  two  mysterious  letters. 

"  I  was  only  half  intentionally  the  means,  Mr.  Townsend," 
the  young  girl  went  on,  "  of  plunging  you  into  a  situation  of 
danger  without  the  least  right  to  do  so  ;  and  yet  I  do  not  know 
that  I  can  be  sorry  for  the  liberty  I  have  taken,  as  it  may  have 
been  the  cause  of  saving  a  life  that  would  otherwise  have  been 
lost,  and  of  my  witnessing  an  act  of  disinterested  generosity 
which  I  can  never  forget,  or  forget  to  honor,  w^hile  I  live." 

"You  do  me  altogether  too  much  honor,"  was  the  reply,  in 
a  somewhat  steadier  voice,  "  I  have  really  done  nothing, 
except  to  make  an  exhibition  of  myself  by  my  weakness. 
There  was  no  danger  to  me  in  the  water,  for  I  am  a  good 
swimmer  and  ought  to  be  able  to  dive  well ;  but  I  suppose  that 
I  stayed  too  long  under,  for  I  could  not  find  the  little  fellow  at 
once,  and  the  chill  of  the  water  no  doubt  affected  me,  after 
getting  warm  in  climbing  over  those  logs.  That  is  all,  and  I 
really  hope  you  will  all  forget  that  the  unpleasant  afi'air  has 
occurred,  as  I  shall  certainly  do  after  I  have  found  a  suit  of 
dry  clothes." 

He  spoke  pleasantly,  but  with  nothing  of  the  rattling  gayety 
which  seemed  to  characterize  his  rival  of  the  day — the  hero 
of  the  bear-stakes ;  and  once  again  while  he  was  speaking, 
Margaret  Hayley  seemed  strangely  moved  and  partially  shud- 
dered at  something  in  the  tones  of  the  voice.  As  he  finished, 
he  bowed  and  turned  away,  as  if  quite  enough  had  been  said, 
and  the  lady  also  moved  away  a  step  or  two  and  rejoined  her 
escort.  Halstead  Rowan  came  up  with  the  coat  and  shoes, 
and  as  he  dropped  them  on  the  rock  at  the  feet  of  Townseiid 
grasped  his  hand  with  his  own  unwounded  one,  with  a  pressure 
so  warm  and  manly  that  it  told  volumes  of  respect  and  regard. 

"/  am  nowhere  !"  he  said.     "  I  dared  you  over  that  log ; 


T  U  £      COWARD.  -^y 

but  you  have  gone  where  I  should  uot  like  to  follow,  aud  douo 
it  for  something,  while  mine  was  merely  a  prank.  And  by  the 
way—"  they  were  at  that  moment  a  little  apart  from  the  others, 
and  Rowan  spoke  low—"  do  you  know  where  your  head  lay 
when  you  came  to  ?"  • 

"  Hush  !  for  heaven's  sake,  hush  I"  said  Townsend,  quickly 
and  with  something  in  his  face  that  made  the  other  pause  in- 
stantly.  The  conversation,  at  that  point,  was  not  renewed  there 

and  then. 

A  portion  of  the  company  had  by  that  time  commenced 
ascending  the  steps,  carrying  the  abated  boy-nuisance  and 
accompanying  his  mother.  Townsend  managed  to  draw  on 
the  discarded  shoes  over  his  wet  stockings,  put  on  his  coat 
and  accompanied  the  rear-guard  with  very  slight  assistance, 
enjoying  a  continued  walking-bath,  but  no  doubt  consoled  for 
any  discomfort  by  the  reflection  that  he  had  been  w^herc  few 
men  had  ever  plunged  and  come  out  alive,— and  perhaps  yet 
more  moved  by  some  other  reflections  of  a  much  more  mixed 

character.  -r,    /-i 

An  hour  later,  the  whole  party  had  reached  the  Proh.o 
House  once  more,  and  Horace  Townsend,  as  he  named  him- 
self and  as  we  must  continue  to  name  him  in  deference  to  his 
own  statement,  was  the  happy  possessor  of  a  dry  suit,  a  slight 
headache  and  an  eventual  nap  which  left  him  fresh  as  if  ho 
had  bathed  in  the  Pool  as  a  hygienic  measure.    Master  Brooks 
Brooks  Cunninghame  needed  longer  renovating,  but  he  camo 
round  during  the  afternoon,  with  the  fatal  facility  of  those 
who  are  of  no  use  in  the  world,  and  was  quite  ready  for 
supper.     And  what  a  buzzing  there  was  about  the  Profile  ail 
the  afternoon,  while  those  who  had  witnessed  the  affair  at  the 
Pool  detailed  it,  with  additions,  to  those  who  had  remained  at 
the  house,  and  those  who  had  not  caught  the  name  or  address 
of  the  stranger  ran  to  the  book  to  satisfy  themselves,  and 
speculations  as  to  his  married  or  single  state  were  indulged 
in  and  the  Cincinnati  lawyer  underwent,  without  his  being 
thoroughly  aware  of  the  fact,  all  the  mental  manipulations 
18 


290  THE      COWARD. 

and  verbal  remouldings  incideDtal  to  any  one  who  treads  out 
of  the  common  path,  whether  creditably  or  discreditably, 
among  the  half  idle  and  more  than  half  ennuyee  habitues  of 
a  watering  place. 

One  or  two  additional  peeps  at  events  of  that  afternoon 
must  be  taken,  before  passing  on  to  those  of  the  evening, 
which  were  to  prove  quite  as  momentous  in  some  regards. 

Peep  the  Jirst.  Margaret  Hayley  kept  her  chamber  all  the 
afternoon,  pleading  headache  and  fatigue,  while  Mrs.  Burton 
Hayley  and  Captain  Hector  Coles  "  did"  Echo  Lake  and  talked 
very  confidentially.  A  large  part  of  that  time  the  young  girl 
lay  on  her  bed,  her  eyes  closed  but  by  no  means  sleeping — 
thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  until  her  brain  seemed  to  be  in 
a  whirl  and  all  the  world  unreal. 

Peep  the  second.  At  a  certain  hour  in  the  afternoon,  un- 
known then  to  the  other  members  of  the  Yanderljn  family 
but  too  well  known  to  them  afterwards,  as  the  sequel  proved, 
Halstead  Rowan,  rapidly  improving  if  not  indeed  presuming 
upon  his  acquaintance  of  the  morning,  enticed  Clara  Tanderlyn 
away  to  the  ten-pin  alley  and  inducted  her  into  the  art  and 
mystery  of  knocking  down  bilstead  pins  with  a  lignum  vitfe 
ball,  apparently  to  the  satisfaction  of  that  young  lady,  who 
should  certainly  have  held  herself  above  such  an  amusement 
of  the  athletic  canaille.  If  the  lady,  with  two  hands,  beat 
her  instructor  with  one,  he  was  no  more  than  justly  punished. 

Peep  the  third.  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  walking 
through  one  of  the  corridors,  heard  two  young  ladies,  accom- 
panied by  a  gentleman,  say  :  "  Patsey !  oh,  my  poor  Patsey  !'* 
in  such  dolorous  tones  and  with  what  seemed  so  meaning  a 
look  towards  her,  as  tended  to  recall  an  unfortunate  exclama- 
tion at  the  Pool  very  forcibly  to  her  recollection,  and  to  put 
her  into  a  frame  of  mind  the  exact  reverse  of  felicitous.  This 
was  not  improved  by  the  discovery  that  Mr.  Brooks  Cunning- 
hame had  fallen  into  the  company  of  certain  stage-drivers,  at 
the  bar,  and  had  imbibed  whiskey  with  them  to  an  extent 
which  rounded  his  brogue  but  did  not  assure  the  steadiness 


THE      COWARD.  291 

of  his  perpendicular  or  add  to  the  respectability  of  his  gen- 
eral demeanor. 

And  now  to  the  event  of  the  evening,  which  seemed  emi- 
nently fit  to  close  a  day  so  full  of  adventure  that  the  move- 
ments of  a  dozen  ordinary  days  might  have  been  compressed 
into  it.  Most  of  this,  from  reasons  which  will  eventually  de- 
velop themselves,  is  to  be  seen  through  the  eyes  of  one  who 
has  been  before  called  "the  observer." 

When  Horace  Townsend  came  out  late  from  supper  that 
evening,  after  a  meal  at  which  the  succulent  steaks,  the  flaky 
tea-biscuit  and  the  sweet  little  mountain  strawberries  had  not 
been  quite  so  fully  enjoyed  as  they  might  have  been  with  a 
little  additional  company  at  table, — harp,  horn  and  violin 
were  again  sounding  in  the  long  parlors,  as  tliey  had  been 
the  evening  before,  and  much  more  attention  was  being  paid 
to  them  than  whea  the  full  moon  was  their  momentary  rival. 
Perhaps  not  less  than  half  the  beauty,  grace  and  gallantry 
then  assembled  at  the  Profile,  were  gathered  under  the  flash- 
ing lights,  dancing,  promenading,  flirting,  and  generally  float- 
ing down  the  pleasant  stream  of  moderate  watering-place 
dissipation.  The  Russian  ''Redowa"  was  sounding  from 
brass  and  string  as  he  entered  the  long  parlor  from  the  hall ; 
and  among  the  figures  sweeping  proudly  by  to  that  most 
voluptuous  of  measures,  he  instantly  recognized  two  whose 
identity  could  not  indeed  have  been  very  well  mistaken  under 
any  circumstances.  The  larger  and  coarser  figure  wore  on 
one  of  its  hands  a  glove  several  sizes  too  large — one,  indeed, 
that  might  have  been  constructed  by  some  glove-maker  of  the 
Titan  period  :  Halstead  Rowan  was  whirling  Clara  Tander- 
lyn  lazily  around  in  the  dance. 

The  strange  introduction  of  the  morning,  then,  had  already 
produced  its  effect,  and  the  possible  romance  to  be  built  out 
of  that  rescue  was  coming  on  quite  as  rapidly  as  even  a  sen- 
sation novelist  could  have  anticipated.  Horace  Townsend, 
whose  eyes  seemed  to  be  v/andering  in  search  of  some  face 
or  figure  which  did  not  fall  under  their  view,  but  who  had 


292  TUE      COWARD. 

been  gazing  with  undisguised  admiration,  for  some  hours  tho 
previous  day,  on  those  of  this  very  Clara  Yanderlyn — Horace 
Townsend  thought,  as  he  saw  the  manly  arm  of  Rowan  span- 
ning the  pliant  white-robed  waist  of  his  partner,  that  seldom 
could  the  old  illustration  of  the  rugged  oak  and  the  clinging 
ivy  be  better  supplied, — and  that  if  fate  and  fortune  had  set, 
as  they  too  evidently  seemed  to  have  done,  an  eternal  bar 
between  the  two,  they  had  predestined  to  remain  apart  one 
couple  whom  the  fitness  of  nature  would  certainly  have  joined. 
His  frank,  hearty,  manly  energy,  deficient  in  some  of  tho 
finer  cultures  and  at  times  approaching  to  roughness,  and  her 
gentle,  womanly  tenderness,  with  almost  too  much  of  delicate 
refinement,  seemed  mentally  to  blend  in  the  thought  of  the 
future  and  of  the  children  likely  to  spring  from  such  a  union, 
as  physically  stood  in  relief  and  pleasing  contrast  the  close- 
curled  dark  hair  and  the  shower  of  waving  gold. 

Passing  still  further  down  the  room,  either  in  that  quest 
which  has  before  been  hinted  at,  or  in  the  search  for  a  vacant 
scat  among  the  male  and  female  wall-flowers,  Townsend  came 
upon  the  mother  of  the  young  lad}^  Mrs.  Vanderlyn  was 
standing  beside  a  centre-table,  under  one  of  the  chandeliers, 
an  illustrated  book  in  her  hand,  and  apparently  absorbed  in 
the  contemplation  of  some  of  the  engravings  after  Landseer 
and  Corbould.  But  books  have  been  known,  many  times  in 
the  history  of  the  world,  to  be  used  for  the  same  purpose  as 
fans  or  fire-screens,  (or  even  spectacles,  for  that  matter),  and 
looked  over  ;  and  the  lawyer  felt  a  sudden  curiosity  awakened 
to  examine  the  eyes,  especially  as  the  lady  was  standing  in 
such  a  position  as  to  command  the  dancers. 

He  was  not  at  all  disappointed  in  the  surmise  which  he 
seemed  to  have  formed.  The  haughty  matron  had  no  eyes 
for  her  book,  but  really  had  her  gaze  fixed,  with  a  close  pres- 
sure of  the  eye-balls  against  the  brows,  on  her  daughter  and 
Halstead  Kowan.  And  no  one  who  had  only  seen  it  under 
more  favorable  circumstances,  would  have  believed  it  possible 
tljat  a  faco  of  ?;ich  matronlv  comeliness  could  be  brought  to 


THE      COWARD.  293 

look  so  harshly — even  vindictively.  The  eyes  were  literally 
fierce  ;  and  the  mouth  was  set  with  a  firm,  hard  expression 
which  brought  the  full  lower  lip  perceptibly  over  the  upper. 

Suddenly  the  observer  saw  the  features  relax  and  the  whole 
expression  change.  He  turned  instantly  and  half  involun- 
tarily, and  saw  that  a  substitution  had  taken  place  in  partners. 
Without  quiv^ting  the  floor,  Miss  Yanderlyn  had  accepted  the 
proffered  hand  of  a  3'oung  Boston  exquisite  who  was  already 
rumored  around  the  Notch  to  be  the  heir  of  a  paternal  half 
million, — and  was  whirling  away  in  another  polka.  Kowan 
was  ^one.  A  second  glance  showed  that  he  had  not  left  the 
room,  but  that  he  stood  far  back  in  one  of  the  corners,  alone 
und  silent,  and  his  eyes,  heedless  of  the  amount  of  observation 
which  their  glance  might  excite,  fixed  in  profound  admiration 
on  the  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  just  quitted.  Then  the 
expression  of  his  face  seemed  for  the  moment  to  change,  and 
the  same  emotions  might  have  been  read  there  that  had 
startled  at  least  one  of  the  spectators  the  evening  before  at 
the  piazza — the  same  emotions  of  contending  pride  and  abase- 
ment, hope  and  fear,  but  intensified  now  so  that  there  could 
be  no  mistaking  their  import. 

At  that  stage  Horace  Townsend  left  the  room,  perhaps  to 
pursue  the  personal  search  which  had  so  far  proved  unavail- 
ing. He,  who  had  himself  been  originally  observing  tho 
j^oung  girl  with  such  admiration,  saw,  or  thought  that  he 
saw,  the  materials  for  a  very  pretty  if  not  a  very  painful 
romance,  in  which  the  two  would  form  the  chief  dramatis 
personas.  Two  or  three  conditions,  he  thought,  were  already 
evolved  :  an  unmistakable  mutual  interest — observation  and 
dislike  on  the  part  of  the  aristocratic  mother — to  be  followed 
by  eventual  discovery  on  tho  part  of  the  weaker  and  yet  more 
aristocratic  brother — an  unpleasant  eclair ciHsement — coolness 
born  of  the  very  warmth  underlying — a  parting  in  pleasant 
dissatisfacMon  with  themselves  and  each  other — and  perhaps 
a  shadow  of  blended  sweet  and  painful  memory  over  the 
whole  of  two  after  lives  ! 


294  THE      cow  A  ED. 

Then  the  lawyer  passed  out  to  the  piazza  and  paced  with 
measured  step  up  and  down  that  promenade  and  the  plateau 
in  front,  for  perhaps  more  than  half  an  hour.  He  might  have 
been  entirely  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  possible 
fortunes  of  Chicago  and  Baltimore;  and  he  might  have  found 
matter  for  thought  much  more  personal  to  himself.  At  all 
events  the  starlight  and  the  coming  moon  seemed  to  be  com- 
pany which  he  failed  to  find  elsewhere  ;  and  even  the  dusky 
shadows  of  the  bears,  deserted  by  their  friends  of  the  sun- 
shine and  walking  their  weary  rounds  like  sentinels,  possibly 
supplied  something  denied  him  by  humanity.  His  step  was 
that  of  a  man  restless,  absorbed  and  ill  at  case;  his  head  had 
fallen  forward  on  his  breast ;  and  once,  when  he  was  so  far 
away  from  the  loiterers  on  the  piazza  that  no  ear  was  likely 
to  catch  his  words,  he  muttered  something  that  could  scarcely 
have  found  an  application  to  the  persons  of  the  drama  in  the 
parlor.     That  murmur  ran  : 

"  I  suppose  this  is  the  most  dishonorable  action  in  my 
life — planning  to  betray  confidence  and  take  an  unfair  advan- 
tage. Why  did  he  tell  me  so  much  before  he  went  to  Europe  ? 
Pshaw  1"  and  he  put  his  hand  to  his  brow  and  walked  on  for 
a  moment  in  silence.  "  I  will  not  go  back — I  will  try  the 
experiment — I  will  win  that  woman,  if  I  can,  under  this  very 
name,  now  that  I  begin  to  understand  her  weakness  so  well. 
And  if  I  do — heavens,  in  what  a  situation  shall  I  have  placed 
her  and  myself !  And  will  she  ever  forgive  the  deception  ? 
Xo  matter  ! — let  the  future  take  care  of  itself." 

Either  the  stars  grew  less  companionable,  then,  at  the 
thought  that  some  strange  deceit  was  being  wrought  beneath 
them,  or  the  soliloquist  felt  that  there  yet  remained  something 
worth  looking  after  within  the  parlor,  for  he  looked  up  at  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  second  story,  said :  "  Ah,  no  light  there, 
at  last !"  stepped  back  to  the  piazza  and  once  more  entered 
the  house  and  the  dancing-room. 

The  music  was  still  sounding  as  merrily  as  ever,  and  as  he 
re-entered  the  room  a  new  set  was  forming.     In  the  very 


THK      COWARD.  295 

midst  of  those  who  were  preparing  to  join  it,  full  under  the 
blaze  of  the  central  chandelier,  stood  Clara  Yanderlyn.     She 
was  for  the  moment  motionless,  and  he  had  better  opportunity 
than  before  of  scanning  her  really  radiant  loveliness.     She 
wore  a  simple  evening-dress  of  white,  with  a  single  wild-flower 
wreathed  in  her  bright  auburn  hair  and  a  single  jewel  of 
value  set  like  a  star  at  the  apex  of  the  forehead,  confined  by 
a  delicate  and  almost  unseen  chain  of  gold  which  encircled 
her  head.    Frank  Yanderlyn,  in  full  evening-dress,  was  stand- 
ing a  few  feet  off,  in  conversation  with  some  young  men  with 
w^hom  he  had  already  formed  an  acquaintance,  and  did  not 
seem   to  be  preparing  to  join   the  set.     A  hurried  glance 
around  the  room  did  not  show  that  either  Mrs.  Yanderlyn  or 
Halstead  Rowan  w^as  present. 

The  band  struck  up  a  schottische,  and  all  began  to  take 
partners.    At  this  moment  Mrs.  Yanderlyn  came  through  the 
door-way  from  the  hall,  sweeping  in  with  more  of  that  pro- 
nounced haughtiness  which  seemed  indexed  by  her  face  and 
carriage,  than  any  of  the  visitors  at  the  Profile  had  before 
seen  her  exhibit,  and  creating  a  kind  of  impression  upon 
those  near  whom  she  passed,  that  they  were  suddenly  taken 
under  proprietorship.     She  swept  very  near  the  lawyer  as  he 
stood  at  the  left  of  the  door- way,  and  passing  down  the  room 
touched  her  son  on  the  arm.     And  the  lawyer  could  not,  if 
he  would  (which  seemed  not  over  probable)  have  avoided 
hearing  the  single  word  that  she  uttered,  almost  in  Frank's 
ear,  and  in  a  low,  concentrated  tone  : 
"  Remember  !" 

Frank  Yanderlyn  nodded,  with  a  supercilious  smile  upon 
his  face,  as  though  he  understood  the  direction;  and  the 
stately  mother  swept  down  the  room  and  partially  disap- 
peared among  the  crowd  of  quiet  people  below. 

Clara  Yanderlyn  stood  for  the  moment  alone,  as  the  band 
struck  up.  Whether  she  had  received  and  declined  invita- 
tions to  dance,  or  whether  no  one  had  found  the  temerity  to 
offer  himself  with  the  chance  of  refusal,  seemed  doubtful,  for 


29G  THE      COWARD. 

bho  certainly  appeared  to  have  no  partner.  Cut  as  the  first 
couple  moved  forward  to  take  their  places,  a  tall  form  dark- 
ened the  doorway  for  an  instant,  and  Ilalstead  Rowan  wa-» 
again  at  the  fair  girl's  side,  his  face  literally  radiant  with 
pride  and  triumph.  There  was  no  word  spoken  at  that  mo- 
Tnent,  and  it  would  seem  that  there  must  have  been  somo 
previous  understanding  between  them,  for  her  hand  was 
instantly  placed  v/ithin  his  arm  when  he  offered  it,  and  her 
face  reflected  his  own  with  a  look  of  gratification  that  any 
close  observer  could  not  well  avoid  noticing. 

Both  had  taken  a  step  forward  lo  join  the  set,  when  an  in- 
terruption took  place  of  so  painful  a  character  as  at  once  to 
call  the  attention  of  every  one  within  hearing ;  and  Horace 
Townsend,  standing  very  near,  had  a  sudden  opportunity  to 
compare  the  reality  with  his  unspoken  foreboding  of  half  an 
hour  before.  Frank  Vanderlyn  suddenly  left  the  group  with 
whom  he  had  been  conversing  but  a  few  feet  away,  stepped  up 
to  his  sister,  and  before  either  she  or  Rowan  could  have  been 
aware  of  his  intention,  drew  her  hand  away  from  the  arm  of 
her  escort,  and  somewhat  rudely  placed  it  within  his  own, 
with  a  bold  glance  at  Rowan  and  the  words : 

"  Miss  Clara  Yanderlyn,  if  you  wish  to  dance,  your  family 
would  prefer  that  you  should  select  a  different  partner  from 
the  first  low-bred  nobody  who  happens  to  fall  in  your  way — 
a  good  enough  ten-pin-alley  companion,  perhaps,  but  not 
quite  the  thing  in  a  ball-room  !" 

"Oh,  brother!" 

The  face  of  the  poor  girl,  so  foully  outraged,  first  flushed, 
then  whitened,  and  she  seemed  on  the  point  of  sinking  to  the 
floor  with  the  shame  of  such  a  public  insult  and  exposure. 
She  might  indeed  have  done  so,  under  the  first  shock,  had  not 
the  arm  of  Frank  supported  her.  The  next  instant  it  was 
evident  that  all  the  pride  of  the  Yanderlyns  had  not  been  ex- 
hausted before  her  birth,  for  she  jerked  away  her  arm  from  its 
compulsory  refuge,  and  stood  erect  and  angry — all  the  woman 
fully  aroused.     Her  glance  of  withering  contempt  and  scorn, 


THE      COWARD.  207 

then  directed  at  the  ill-mannered  stripling  who  called  himself 
her  brother,  was  such  a  terrible  contrast  to  the  sweet  and  al- 
most infantile  smile  which  rested  on  her  face  in  happier 
moments,  that  it  would  have  been  no  difficult  matter  to  doubt 
her  identity. 

As  for  Halstead  Rowan — at  the  moment  when  the  cruel 
act  was  done  and  the  insulting  words  were  spoken,  he  turned 
instantl}^  upon  the  intruder,  evidently  failing  to  recognize  him 
in  the  sudden  blindness  of  his  rage.  His  right  hand,  though 
the  injured  one,  clenched  as  it  might  have  done  under  the 
shock  of  an  electric  battery,  and  Townsend  savr  him  jerk  it 
to  the  level  of  Iiis  shoulder  as  if  he  would  have  struck  a  blow 
certain  to  cause  regret  for  a  lifetime.  But  he  had  no  occasion 
to  interpose,  for  the  outraged  girFs  "  Oh,  brother  !"  came  just 
in  time  to  prevent  the  commission  of  the  intended  violence. 
Instantly  his  hand  dropped  ;  Clara  Yanderlyn's  expression 
of  angry  contempt,  easily  read  under  the  full  glare  of  the 
chandelier,  chased  the  fierce  rage  from  his  face  if  it  did  not 
root  out  the  bitterness  from  his  heart ;  he  bowed  low  to 
the  sister,  cast  a  glance  upon  the  brother  w^hich  he  did  not 
seem  likely  soon  to  forget ;  and  in  another  moment,  passing 
rapidly  between  the  few  who  surrounded  the  door-way,  he 
touched  Horace  Townsend  forcibly  upon  the  arm,  nodded  to 
him  with  a  gesture  which  the  latter  readily  understood  as  a  re- 
quest to  follow,  and  the  two  passed  out  from  the  parlor,  the 
hall  and  the  house. 

It  is  not  easy  to  describe  the  scene  in  the  parlor  which 
followed  the  denouement  that  has  been  so  feebly  pictured. 
The  music  sounded  on,  but  the  set  remained  unformed  and  no 
one  seemed  to  heed  it.  The  room  was  instantly  full  of  con- 
versation in  regard  to  the  strange  event,  more  or  less  loud  in 
its  tone.  Frank  Yanderlyn,  calculating  upon  the  sympathies 
of  a  company  principally  composed  of  wealthy  and  fashiona- 
ble people,  looked  around  him  as  if  for  approbation  of  what 
he  had  done,  but  did  not  appear  to  receive  it.  It  was  not 
difficult  for  him  to  read  in  the  faces  near  him  that  the  sym- 


298  THE      COWARD. 

pathies  of  the  whole  company  were  with  the  insulted  person, 
most  of  the  members  of  it,  if  they  had  no  other  reason  for 
the  feeling,  remembering  the  event  of  the  bear-steaks  in  the 
morning  and  thinking  that  if  the  Illinoisan  was  to  receive  any 
thing  from  the  Yanderlyn  family  that  day,  it  should  have  been 
gratitude  instead  of  insult.  Made  painfully  aware  of  this  state 
of  feeling,  the  young  man  paled,  bit  his  lips,  then  passed 
rapidly  out  of  the  room  and  disappeared,  leaving  his  sister 
still  in  the  attitude  of  outraged  sensibility  and  mortification, 
which  she  retained,  uttering  no  word  to  any  one  and  not  even 
casting  a  glance  around  the  room,  until  Mrs.  Yanderlyn,  who 
had  apparently  constituted  herself  the  reserve  force  for  the 
attack  upon  her  daughter's  dignity  which  Frank  had  so  gal- 
lantly led,  swept  up  from  below  and  led  her  unresistingly 
away  up  the  stair-case  to  their  apartments. 

The  set  was  finally  formed,  and  a  few  more  figures  were 
danced  in  the  parlor  of  the  Profile  that  evening  ;  but  the  pain- 
ful incident  just  recorded  had  dulled  the  sense  of  enjoyment, 
and  the  company  thinned  out  and  eventually  dispersed  to 
earlier  beds  than  they  might  have  found  under  other  circum- 
stances. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

HoTT  Halstead  Rowan  arranged  that  expected  Duel 
— Ten-pins  versus  Bloodshed — Some  anxiety  about 
IDENTITY — The  "  H.  T."  initials,  again — A  farewell  to 
the  Brooks  Cunninghames — An  hour   on   Echo  Lake, 

WITH  A  rhapsody  AND  A    STRANGELY-INTERESTED   LISTENER. 

This  chapter  must  be  unavoidably  as  fragmentary,  not  to 
say  desultory,  as  some  that  have  preceded  it  at  considerable 
distance,  the  course  of  events  in  it  seeming  to  partake  in  some 


THE      CO  W  A  R  D  .  299 

degree  of  the  broken,  heaped  and  heterogeneous  quality  of 
the  mountain  rocks  amidst  which  they  occurred. 

It  has  been  seen  that  Halstead  Rowan,  quitting  the  room 
in  which  he  had  met  with  so  severe  a  mortification,  touched 
Horace  TowQsend  on  the  arm  and  made  him  a  signal  to  follow, 
and  that  the.  latter  obeyed  the  call.  Of  course  this  obedience 
was  a  matter  of  courtesy  that  could  not  well  be  refused,  and 
yet  it  was  accorded  with  a  feeling  so  painful  that  it  would 
scarcely  have  been  asked  had  the  torture  been  foreseen. 
Rowan,  as  the  lawyer  knew,  had  been  insulted  before  a  com- 
pany of  mark  and  numbers,  in  so  deadly  a  manner  that  more 
than  usual  forbearance  would  be  necessary  to  forgive  the  out- 
rage ;  and  the  insulted  man  belonged,  as  the  lawyer  also 
knew,  to  a  class  of  Western  men  not  much  more  prone  than 
those  of  the  South  and  Southwest,  to  smother  down  a  wrong 
under  good-feeling  or  expediency.  He  had  refrained  from 
striking  the  insulter  on  the  spot ;  but  that  forbearance  might 
have  been  merely  the  effect  of  a  recollection  that  ladies  were 
present,  and  the  one  lady  of  all  among  them ;  and  Horace 
Townsend  no  more  doubted,  during  the  moment  that  elapsed 
wiiile  the  two  young  men  stepped  into  the  reception-room  and 
secured  their  hats  from  the  table,  that  he  was  being  called 
upon  in  the  sacred  name  of  friendship  to  act  in  an  affair  that 
would  probably  cost  the  life  of  one  or  both  the  antagonists, 
than  he  questioned  the  fact  of  his  own  existence.  It  is 
doubtful  whether  he  did  not  believe,  before  the  affair  was 
concluded,  that  so  strange  a  task  had  never  been  set  for  his 
friend,  by  any  man  incensed  to  the  necessity  of  mortal  combat, 
since  the  day  when  duelling  proper  had  its  origin  in  two 
naked  savages  going  out  behind  their  huts  with  knives  and  a 
third  to  look  on,  for  the  love  of  a  dusky  she-heathen  with 
oblique  eyes — down  through  all  the  ages,  when  Sir  Grostete 
set  lance  in  rest  and  met  Sir  Maindefer  in  full  career,  over  a 
little  question  of  precedence  at  the  table  of  King  Grand pillard  ; 
when  Champfleury  and  St.  Esprit,  beaux  of  the  Regency  of 
Orleans,  with  keen  rapiers  sliced  up  each  other  like  cucuin- 


800  THE      COWAKD. 

bcrs,  bctwcon  two  bows  and  a  dozen  of  grimaces,  because  one 
did  not  appreciate  the  perfume  used  bj  the  other ;  until 
Fighting  Joe  of  Arkansas  and  Long  Alick  of  St.  Louis  cul- 
minated the  whole  art  of  single  combat  by  a  little  encounter 
with  rifles,  followed  by  a  closer  embrace  with  bowics,  at  one 
of  the  Mississippi  landings,  instigated  by  the  unequal  division 
of  the  smiles  of  Belle  Logan,  of  Western  Row,  Cincinnati. 
All  which  means,  if  the  reader  has  not  entirely  lost  the  con- 
text, that  the  course  pursued  by  Halstead  Rowan,  as  a  com- 
batant, was  eventually  found  to  be  something  out  of  the  com- 
mon order. 

"You  saw  that,  of  course — I  know  that  you  did!"  said 
rather  than  inquired  Rowan,  when  they  had  reached  the  piazza 
and  were  out  of  hearing  of  any  of  the  promenading  groups. 

''I  did,"  answered  Townsend,  with  some  hesitation  and  a 
wish  that  he  could  deny  the  fact  and  thus  escape  the  duties 
certain  to  be  forced  upon  him.  "Yes,  I  saw  it  all,  and  it  was 
most  disgraceful.     But  I  hope — " 

That  intended  lecture  was  lost  to  the  world,  as  so  many 
others  have  been ;  for  Rowan  interrupted  him  : 

"Are  you  poor  ?" 

"  'No,  I  cannot  say  that  I  am,  in  money  !"  was  the  surprised 
reply. 

"  Were  you  ever  ?" 

"  No — I  must  answer  in  the  negative  a  second  time.  I 
have  never  been  what  the  world  calls  poor,  since  I  can  re- 
member." 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  how  it  feels,"  said  the  Illinoisan. 
"  I  am  poor — I  have  never  been  rich,  and  I  do  not  know  that  I 
have  ever  really  wished  to  be  so  until  a  few  moments  ago.  I 
wanted  to  buy  a  puppy,  so  that  I  could  tie  a  stone  to  his 
jiock  and  drown  him  ;  but  I  felt  that  I  had  not  money  enough." 

Townsend,  still  surprised  and  in  a  good  deal  of  doubt 
whither  the  conversation  was  tending,  murmured  something 
about  the  fact  that  however  decided  the  insult  of  the  brother 
had  been,  evidently  the  sister  did  not  share  in  the  feeling. 


T  il  E      0  0  W  A  K  D  .  301 

"She  ?  oh  no,  heaven  bless  her  brown  eyes  !"  he  replied, 
rapidly  and  earnestly,  while  the  other  could  see,  in  the  light 
of  the  now  fairly  risen  moon,  that  there  was  a  strange  sparkle 
in  his  own  dark  orbs.  "As  for  the  rest — well,  heaven  need 
not  be  particular  about  blessing  them — that  is  all  I  But 
this  gabble  is  not  what  I  drew  you  out  here  for.  I  want  you 
to  do  me  a  great  favor,  at  once,  and  I  ask  you,  because  I  seem 
to  be  better  acquainted  with  you,  after  a  very  short  time, 
than  with  any  other  person  just  now  at  the  Notch." 

"  XoW'  it  is  coming — ^just  what  I  dreaded  !"  said  Townsend 
to  himself;  but  he  answered  very  differently,  in  a  feeble 
attempt  to  stave  off  the  trouble. 

"  Than  any  other  person  ?" 

"Hold  your  tongue  ! — you  know  what  I  mean  !"  was  the 
reply.  "Answer  my  question,  yes  or  no — are  you  the  man 
upon  whom  I  can  depend,  to  do  me  an  immediate  personal 
service  that  may  involve  some  sacrifice  of  bodily  comfort  and 
perhaps  of  feeling  ?" 

"  I  hope  so — yes  1"  answered  Townsend.  "  But  before  you 
take  any  steps  in  this  matter — " 

"  Conditions  already  ?"  asked  Rowan.  "  I  thought  it  was 
to  be  an  unconditional  yes  or  no  !" 

"  Well,  it  is  1"  said  Townsend,  apparently  satisfied  that 
expostulation  would  after  all  be  useless. 

"Enough  said  !"  replied  Rowan,  catching  him  by  the  arm. 
"Come  along  with  me  to  the  alley,  then,  and  roll  me  not  less 
than  five  games  of  ten-pins." 

"But  the  business  you  wished  me  to  do?"  asked  Town- 
send.     "  If  it  is  to  be  done  at  all — " 

"Why,  confound  the  man  ! — what  ails  you  ?  That  is  the 
business  !" 

"  To  roll  you  five  games  of  ten-pins  ?" 

"Exactly  !  Why,  what  else  should  it  be  ?  Oh,  I  see  !'» 
and  Rowan  chuckled  out  a  low  laugh  from  his  great  throat. 
"  I  understand  your  tragic  face,  now.  You  thought  that  I 
wanted  you  as  a  friend,  to — " 


302  TUE      COWARD. 

■  '  "To  challenge  Frank  Yanderlyn — precisely  what  I  thought," 
said  the  lawyer,  "  and  I  consented  to  act  because  I  thought 
that  I  might  be  better  able  than  some  other  person  to  prevent 
any  serious  result." 

"  To  shoot  her  brother,  merely  because  he  is  a  fool  ? — Oh, 
no,  Townsend — you  could  not  think  that!  Duelling  is 
murder  nearly  always,  and  folly  always  when  it  is  not  a 
crime  ;  and  if  I  should  ever  be  driven  into  another  duel,  be 
sure  that  it  would  not  be  with  an  inexperienced  boy  who 
probably  does  not  know  half  so  much  about  a  pistol  as  a 
pen-knife  or  a  tooth-pick." 

"  You  are  a  true  man,  as  well  as  a  sensible  one,  and  I 
honor  you  !"  said  the  relieved  lawyer,  grasping  him  by  the 
hand,  and  his  face  at  the  same  time  wearing  a  look,  which, 
though  unseen  by  the  other,  seemed  actually  to  express  per- 
sonal gratitude. 

"  I  do  not  know  about  the  '  true  man,'  though  I  have  tried 
to  be  so,"  answered  Rowan,  as  they  neared  the  door  of  the 
ten-pin  alley.  "But  I  suppose  that  perhaps  I  am  the  oddest 
mortal  on  the  globe,  and  that  may  answer  the  same  purpose. 
And  now  you  are  dying  to  know  why  I  wish  to  roll  ten-pin 
balls  at  this  particular  moment  ?  Simply  because  I  need 
some  way  of  working  off  this  excitement  that  might  lead  me 
to  commit  a  violent  act  if  it  did  not  find  that  very  harmless 
physical  vent.  I  have  tried  the  experiment  before,  and  I 
know  what  ten-pins  are  with  a  man  of  fiery  temperan.iijt. 
Here,  boy,  set  'em  up  !" 

The  alley  was  alone,  except  as  to  the  sleepy  boy ;  but  the 
loud  call  of  the  Illinoisan  soon  put  the  machiuery  of  the  place 
into  operation  and  the  momentous  games  commenced.  No 
matter  how  they  progressed  or  how  thjy  ended  in  regard  to 
winning  or  losing :  it  is  only  with  some  of  the  conversation 
which  took  place  while  the  match  was  under  way,  that  we 
have  at  present  to  do. 

"  You  are  a  law\-er  and  belong  to  Cincinnati,  you  said," 


THE      COWARD.  603 

observed  Rowan,  as  ho  paused  a  moment  to  wipe  his  brow 
after  thundering  down  half  a  dozen  of  the  ponderous  globes. 

**  Yes,  I  said  so,"  answered  Townsend  ;  but  he  did  not 
enlarge  upon  the  answer,  as  he  was  obviously  expected  to 
do  ;  and  one  or  two  other  questions,  having  the  same  scope, 
being  parried  at  every  point  beyond  the  mere  name,  occupa- 
tion and  place  of  residence,  the  Illinoisan  began  to  suspect 
that  there  must  be  some  motive  for  reticence,  which  he  was  at 
least  bound  to  respect  while  he  held  the  catechumen  impressed 
in  his  own  service.  With  reference  to  himself,  a  theme  upon 
which  the  conversation  seemed  to  turn  very  easily,  (many  of 
the  stout,  bluff,  frank,  go-ahead  Rowans  whom  one  meets  in 
society  have  the  same  characteristic,  fault  or  the  reverse), — 
he  manifested  no  corresponding  nervousness  ;  and  one  mo- 
ment strangely  silent  as  if  under  the  influence  of  some 
thought  which  kept  him  too  busy  for  speech,  the  next  he 
would  rattle  on  almost  as  glibly  as  the  polished  balls  rolled 
down  the  pine  floor. 

"You  called  yourself  odd  a  little  while  ago,  and  I  fancy 
that  if  you  are  odd  you  have  the  excuse  of  very  wide  expe- 
rience for  a  man  of  your  age,"  said  Townsend,  a  little  later 
in  the  quintette  of  games,  and  certainly  displaying  a  bit  of 
the  prying  nature  of  the  lawyer,  if  not  the  subtlety  of  the 
Jesuit,  in  the  suggestion.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  (5annot 
quite  place  you  in  profession.  A  while  ago  I  thought  you 
possibly  a  steamboat-captain,  but  you  have  just  upset  that 
hypothesis  by  proving  that  you  are  nearly  all  the  while  on 
land  ;  and  yet  you  seem  to  be  perpetually  flying  about  from 
one  town  to  another.     "What  the  deuce  are  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  cannot  place  me,  eh  ?"  laughed  Rowan,  who  was 
getting  fairly  s(5othed  and  mellowed  by  his  creditable  substi- 
tute for  duelling.     ''  Well,  I  am   a  conductor  on  the 

Railroad,  which  you  know  has  its  terminus  in  Chicago,  and 
I  am  off  on  a  couple  of  months  leave  of  absence  from  the 
Company.  As  to  experience,  I  suppose  that  I  may  have 
had  a  little  of  it.     I  have  been  a  civil-engineer,  employed 


304:  THE      COWARD. 

at  laying  out  some  of  the  worst  roads  m  the  West,  and 
of  course  laying  them  out  the  \Yorst.  Have  crossed  the 
plains  to  California  twice,  and  back  again,  including  a  look 
at  Brigham  and  his  wives  at  Salt  Lake  City,  very  nearly 
getting  my  throat  cut,  I  fancy,  in  that  latter  operation.  Did  a 
little  at  gold-mining,  for  a  short  time,  but  soon  quitted  it  out 
of  deference  to  a  constitutional  backache  when  stooping. 
Have  been  here  at  the  East  a  good  many  times,  and  once 
lived  in  Xew  York,  (a  great  deal  worse  place  than  Salt  Lake 
City,  and  with  more  polygamy  !)  for  a  twelvemonth,  tele- 
graphing. Once  ran  down  to  Santa  Fe  with  a  train,  and 
came  very  near  to  being  speared  by  the  Comanches.  Then 
concluded  to  stay  among  those  amiable  savages  for  a  while, 
to  learn  to  ride,  and  spent  six  months  in  the  study.  Xo  man 
knows  how  to  ride  a  horse — by  the  way — except  an  Arab 
(I  take  the  word  of  the  travellers  for  that,  as  I  have  never 
been  across),  a  Comanche  or  an  Arapahoe,  or  some  one  they 
have  taught.     There,  have  I  told  you  enough  ?" 

"  Humph  ! — yes,"  answered  the  lawyer,  eying  the  strange 
compound  with  unavoidable  admiration  and  no  little  wonder. 
"  Yes,  except  one  thing." 

"And  that  is  about  this  scar  ?" 

"I  confess  that  my  curiosity  lay  in  that  direction  !"  laughed 
Towusend.  "  I  think  that  scar  has  not  been  long  healed — 
that  you  have  been  taking  a  turn  in  the  present  war." 

"Yes,  a  short  one,"  said  the  Illinoisan,  "  and  that  scar  is 
one  mark  of  it.  I  was  a  private  in  the  ranks  of  the  Xinth 
Illinois  for  a  few  months  last  year,  and  got  pretty  badly 
slashed  with  a  Mississippi  bowie-knife,  with  Grant,  two  or 
three  days  before  they  took  Fort  Donelson.  They  took  it — / 
did  not — I  suppose  that  I  did  not  amount  to^much  at  about 
that  period,  with  a  little  hack  in  the  jugular  that  came  pretty 
near  letting  out  life  and  blood  together  !" 

Before  this  conversation  had  concluded,  and  long  before 
the  specified  five  games  were  accomplished,  half  a  dozen  per- 
sons  from  the  hotel,  male  and   female,   came   strolling  in. 


THE      C  0  W  A  K  D  .  305 

Among  them  was  Captain  Hector  Coles,  with  Margaret  Haylcy 
upon  bis  arm.  They  stood  at  the  head  of  the  alley,  looking 
at  the  game  ;  and  Townsend,  as  he  was  about  to  make  one 
of  his  most  difficult  rolls,  recognized  the  lady  and  her  slight 
nod  and  was  sufficiently  agitated  by  the  presence  of  that 
peculiar  spectator,  to  miss  his  aim  entirely  and  roll  the  bail 
off  into  the  gutter — a  fact  which  did  not  escape  the  quick  eye 
of  the  Captain. 

Directly,  as  the  game  still  went  on,  some  conversation  oc- 
curred between  the  lady  and  her  attendant,  which,  if  over- 
heard, might  have  produced  a  still  more  decided  trembling  in 
the  nerves  of  the  ten-pin  player. 

*'I  know  that  I  have  seen  that  face  before,  more  than  once, 
and  not  in  Cincinnati,"  the  Captain  said.  "  I  believe  that  ho 
is  a  Philadelphian,  and  that  his  name  is  no  more  Horace 
Townsend  than  mine  is  Jenkins." 

"  What  motive  could  any  one  possibly  have  for  coming  to 
a  place  like  this  in  disguise  and  with  a  feigned  name  ?"  asked 
Margaret  Hayley. 

*'  Humph  !"  said  the  Captain,  in  a  tone  by  no  means  good- 
humored,  though  it  was  low,  as  the  previous  words  had  been, 
"  there  are  plenty  of  men  who  find  it  necessary  to  disguise 
names  and  faces  now-a-days,  for  the  very  best  of  reasons." 

"Traitors  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  Yes,  traitors  !"  answered  the  Captain. 

''And  tliat  reason  he  has  not,  I  know  !"  said  Margaret. 
*•  The  man  who  uttered  the  words  that  I  heard  last  night,  is 
no  traitor,  and  I  do  not  think  that  I  should  believe  the  very 
angels  of  heaven  if  they  should  come  down  to  make  the  asser- 
tion !" 

"You  seem  strangely  interested  in  the  man  !"  said  the  Cap- 
tain, his  voice  undeniably  querulous. 

"And  I  have  a  right  to  be  so  if  I  choose,  I  suppose  !"  an- 
swered the  lady,  in  a  voice  that  if  it  was  not  querulous  was 
at  least  signally  decided. 
19 


306  TUE      COWARD. 

"  Oh,  certainly  I  certainly  I"  was  the  reply,  coming  out  be- 
tween set  teeth. 

Silence  fell  for  a  moment  thereafter,  except  as  the  crashing 
balls  made  music  among  the  pins.  Then  it  was  interrupted 
by  Rowan  calling  out  to  the  lawyer,  who  seemed  to  stand 
abstracted  and  forgetful  of  the  game. 

"  Townsend !" 

No  motion  on  the  part  of  the  person  addressed,  or  any 
sign  *hat  he  heard  the  utterance. 

"  Townsend  !     I  say,  Townsend  I" 

Still  no  motion,  or  any  recognition  whatever  of  the  name  ; 
and  it  was  not  until  the  Illinoisan,  who  had  just  been  making 
three  ten-strikes  in  succession  with  his  left  hand,  and  who 
was  naturally  anxious  to  call  the  attention  of  his  opponent  to 
the  exploit,  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  literally  shouted 
the  word  into  his  ear,  that  he  paid  any  attention  whatever. 

"Me?     Oh!" 

"  Did  you  notice  that  ?"  asked  the  keen-witted  Captain, 
returning  to  the  charge,  as  a  repulsed  soldier  should  always 
do.  "His  name  is  not  Townsend,  and  he  has  not  been  long 
in  the  habit  of  being  called  by  it ;  for  it  was  forgetfulness 
that  made  him  wait  for  it  to  be  repeated  three  times  !" 

There  was  triumph  in  the  tone  of  the  Captain,  now  ;  and 
there  was  every  thing  but  triumph  in  that  of  Margaret  Hay- 
ley  as  she  leaned  heavily  on  his  arm  and  said  : 

"Pray  do  not  say  any  thing  more  about  it !  That  man  is 
nothing  to  me.     Let  us  go  back  to  the  house." 

"  Wait  one  moment  1  I  am  going  to  do  something  to  sat- 
isfy myself.  Do  you  see  that  handkerchief?  Sometimes 
initials  tell  a  story  that  trunks  and  hotel-books  do  not." 

The  lawyer  had  thrown  off  his  coat  upon  the  chair  behind 
him — a  blue  flannel  coat,  half  military,  which  both  remem- 
bered to  have  seen  him  wear  after  changing  clothes  from  the 
accident  at  the  pool.  From  the  breast-pocket  a  white  hand- 
kerchief hung  temptingly  almost  half  way  out,  and  it  was 
towards  that  that  the  hand  of  the  officer  dived  downward. 


THE      COWARD.  307 

The  owner  of  the  coat  was  some  distance  away,  following  up 
one  of  Lis  flying  balls,  and  was  not  likely  to  see  the  examina- 
tion made  of  his  personal  property,  if  it  was  done  with  quick 
hand  and  eye. 

"Hector  Coles,,  you  would  not  do  tliat!^^ 

But  she  spoke  too  late.  With  the  stereot3'pcd  lie  on  his 
lips  that  has  been  made  the  excuse  for  so  many  wrongs  and 
scoundrelisms  during  all  this  unfortunate  struggle,  "All  is 
fair  in  war-time  !"  the  Captain  whipped  out  the  handkerchief, 
turned  it  quickly  from  corner  to  corner,  glancing  it  to  the 
light  as  he  did  so,  and  then  as  quickly  returned  it  to  the 
pocket,  long  before  the  owner  had  returned  from  watching 
the  effect  of  his  shot.  Margaret  Hayley  had  not  intended  to 
join  in  the  reprehensible  act,  but  she  involuntarily  did  so, 
and  she  as  well  as  the  officer  saw  the  initials  "II.  T."  elabor- 
ately embroidered  in  red  silk  in  one  of  the  corners.  It  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  a  pang  of  joy  w^ent  through  her 
heart  at  that  refutation  of  the  Captain's  mean  suspicions  and 
that  evidence  to  her  own  mind  that  the  man  in  whom  she  had 
become  so  suddenly  and  unaccountably  interested  was  playing 
no  game  of  deceit  and  treachery.  "  H.  T."  were  the  initials, 
Horace  Townsend  was  the  name  that  he  had  given  her,  and 
there  could  be  no  doubt  w^hatever  of  the  truth  of  his  state- 
ment. 

Captain  Hector  Coles  did  not  seem  by  any  means  so  well 
satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  researches.  Something  very 
like  a  scowl  answered  the  look  of  indignation  upon  Margaret 
Hayley's  face,  as  he  said  : 

"  Humph  I  well,  he  has  been  keen  enough,  it  seems,  to 
mismark  his  handkerchief  too  !" 

"And  you  are  ungenerous  enough,  Captain  Hector  Coles, 
first  to  do  an  improper  action  and  then  to  find  fault  with  your 
own  discomfiture  !"  w^as  the  reply,  as  the  lady  once  more  took 
the  proffered  arm  of  the  officer  and  left  the  alley,  the  com- 
batants still  pursuing  the  concluding  game  of  that  most  mem- 
orable match  of  left  hand  against  scanty  practice.     Whither 


308  THE      CO  W  A  R  D  . 

one  of  them  went,  an  hour  or  two  later,  ma}^  possibly  be  dis- 
covered at  no  distant  period  of  this  narration. 


There  were  stormy  times,  that  night,  in  the  chamber  of  con- 
nubial bliss  occupied  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  ; 
and  poor  Caudle,  belabored  as  he  was  in  the  imaginative  mind 
of  Douglas  Jerrold,  never  suffered  as  much  in  one  hour  as  on 
that  occasion  did  the  ex-contractor,  ex- Alderman  and  ex-pur- 
veyor of  mettled  steeds  for  the  United  States  cavalry  service. 
Shoddy  was  in  an  ill-humor,  and  Shoddy  had  a  right  to  bo 
in  an  ill-humor.  Every  thing  had  gone  wrong,  specially  and 
collectively,  from  the  moment  of  their  entering  those  fatal 
mountains.  Mishap  the  first :  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  had 
fainted  and  been  called  "Bridget,"  before  company.  Mishap 
the  second  :  Master  Brooks  Brooks  Cunninghame  had  over- 
eaten himself  and  come  near  to  leaving  the  whole  family  in 
mourning  as  loud  as  his  own  wails.  Mishap  the  third  :  Master 
Brooks  Brooks  had  badgered  the  bears,  in  plain  sight  of  all, 
caused  a  serious  accident,  and  been  visited,  both  loudly  and 
silently,  with  objurgations  not  pleasant  to  remember.  Mishap 
the  fourth  :  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  had  been  herself  badg- 
ered, worse  than  the  bears,  by  an  irreverent  scamp  who  threw 
discredit  at  once  upon  her  foreign  travels  and  her  geography. 
Mishap  the  fifth :  Master  Brooks  Brooks  had  tumbled  into 
the  Pool,  been  nearly  drowned,  and  come  out  a  limp  rag  re- 
quiring some  washing  and  several  hours  wringing  before  recov- 
ering its  original  consistency.  Mishap  the  sixth  :  Mrs.  Brooks 
Cunninghame,  in  the  agitation  of  that  serious  accident,  had 
called  the  dear  boy  by  a  name,  that  of  "  Patsey,"  which  would 
be  likely  to  stick  to  him,  in  taunting  mouths,  during  his  whole 
stay  at  the  Profile.  Mishap  the  seventh  :  Mr.  Brooks  Cun- 
ninghame had  fallen  in,  that  day,  with  the  before-mentioned 
certain  stage-drivers,  who  consented  to  drink  brandy,  wine 
and  punch  at  his  expense,  enticing  him  thereafter  into  low 
stories  of  the  days  when  he  drove  a  horse  and  cart  about 
town,  and  leaving  him  eventually  in  a  state  of  fuddle  amusing 


TLIE      COWAKD.  309 

to  their  hard  heads  and  harder  hearts  but  bv  no  means  con- 
ducive to  his  standing  in  fashionable  watering-place  society. 
Mishap  the  eighth  :  Miss  Marianna  Brooks  Cunninghame  had 
passed  two  evenings  jn  the  parlor  and  one  day  among  the 
guests  in  their  rides  and  walks,  bedizened  in  successive  fineries 
of  the  most  enticing  order ;  and  not  one  person  had  desired 
the  honor  of  her  acquaintance  out  of  doors,  asked  her  to 
dance  in  the  parlor,  or  paid  her  any  more  attention  than  might 
have  been  bestowed  upon  a  very  ungraceful  lay-figure  carried 
around  for  the  showing  off  of  modes  and  millinery. 

All  this  in  thirty  hours ;  and  all  this  was  certainly  enough 
to  disturb  more  equable  pulses  than  those  which  .beat  under 
the  coarse  red  skin  of  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame. 

And  when,  that  night  while  the  moon  was  high  in  heaven 
and  nearly  all  the  guests  had  left  parlor  and  piazza  to  silence 
after  sucji  an  eventful  day — while  poor  Marianna  in  her  cham- 
ber wept  over  the  cruel  neglect  which  had  made  mockery  of 
all  her  rosy  anticipations,  and  Master  Brooks  Brooks  moaned 
out  at  her  side  his  petulant  complaints  born  of  ill-breeding, 
fright  and  weakness, — when  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame 
opened  upon  her  not-yet-sobered  husband  the  battery  of  her 
tongue,  and  accused  him  of  being  the  author  of  all.  the  mis- 
haps before  named,  those  with  which  he  had  nothing  to  do 
quite  as  much  as  those  in  which  he  had  been  really  instru- 
mental,— then  and  there,  for  the  moment,  the  Nemesis  of  the 
outraged  republic  was  duly  asserting  the  power  delegated  to 
her  by  the  gods,  and '  Shoddy,  in  the  person  of  one  of  its 
humblest  representatives,  was  undergoing  a  slight  foretaste 
of  that  eternal  torture  to  be  hereafter  enforced. 

Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame,  on  that  occasion,  declared  her 
intention  of  not  remaining  another  day  among  "such  low 
people,"  and  she  further  intimated  to  Mr.  Brooks  Cunning- 
hame that  if  he  did  not  learn  to  behave  himself  in  a  manner 
more  becoming  to  his  high  position  (or  at  least  the  high  po- 
sition of  his  wife  and  children  !)  she  would  "  take  him  home 


310  THE      COWARD. 

at  ouce  and  never  bring  him  out  agin  into  respectable  society 
while  her  head  was  warrum." 

At  the  end  of  which  exordium  the  berated  husband  not  un- 
naturally remarked,  in  a  brogue  nearly  as  broad  as  it  had 
ever  been  : 

"And  fwhat  the  divil  did  ye  come  trapesin  here  for  at  all 
at  all  ?  Ye'd  be  doin'  well  enough  at  home,  if  ye'd  only  sthay 
there,  Bridget — I  mane  Julia.  Ye'r  no  more  fit  to  be  kapin 
company  wid  dhe  quality,  nor  meself ;  and  I'm  as  much  out 
of  place  here  as  a  pig  'ud  be  goin'  to  mass  !  Sure  Mary  Ann 
'11  niver  be  gettin'  a  husband  among  these  people  wid  dho 
turned-up  noses,  and  poor  little  Pat  '11  be  dhrouned  and  kilt 
and  murthered  intirely  !  You'd  betther  be  gettin'  out  of  this 
as  soon  as  ye  can,  and  I'd  be  savin'  me  hard-earned  money  !" 

"  The  money  you  have  cheated  for,  ye  mane,  Pat  Cunning- 
ham," said  Mrs.  Brooks,  who  when  alone  with  the  object  of 
her  devoted  affection  and  in  a  temper  the  reverse  of  amiable, 
could  unveil  some  of  the  household  skeletons  of  language  and 
history  quite  as  readily  as  he.  "  Pretty  things  them  was  that 
ye  sold  for  horses  to  the  government !  and  there's  a  good  dale 
of  the  money  ye  made  when  ye  was  Alderman,  that  they'd 
send  ye  to  the  State  Prison  for  if  they  knowed  all  about  it !" 

"Thrue  for  ye,  Bridget ! — and  who  but  j^t  oogly  self  put 
the  worst  o'  thim  things  into  me  head,  dinnin'  at  me  o'  nights 
when  ye  ought  to  been  aslape  ? — answer  me  that,  will  ye  ? 
And  now  ye'r  sthruttin'  like  a  peacock  wid  dhe  money  I  mado 
to  plase  ye,  and  divil  the  bit  can  ye  kape  a  civil  tongue  be- 
tween yer  labthern  jaws.  Take  that  and  bo  hanged"  [-or 
some  other  word]  "to  ye,  Bridget  Cunningham  !" 

''  Pat  Cunningham,  ye'r  a  coarse,  miserable  brute — a  low 
Irishman,  and  money  can't  make  any  thing  else  out  of  ye  I 
Away  from  this  we  go  to-morrow  morning,  mind  that,  before 
ye'r  drunk  again  with  yer  low  stage-drivers  and  thim  fellers." 

A  snore  was  the  only  reply.  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame 
haa  secured  the  last  word,  according  to  her  usual  habit ;  but 


THE      COWARD.  811 

she  had  only  done  so  at  the  expense  of  not  having  her  re- 
joinder heard  by  the  ears  for  which  it  was  intended. 

The  lady  kept  her  word,  in  the  one  important  particuhxr. 
Those  who  shared  in  the  early  breakfast  of  the  next  morning, 
before  the  starting  of  the  stages,  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
the  whole  family  at  table  all  bedizened  for  the  road — Mrs. 
Brooks  Cunninghame  red-faced,  stately  and  snappish ;  Miss 
Marianna  subdued  and  unhappy,  with  red  rings  around  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  had  been  crying  all  night ;  Mr.  Brooks  Cun- 
ninghame with  his  coarse  face  yet  coarser  than  usual  and  his 
eyes  suggestive  of  a  late  fuddle,  piling  away  beef-steaks,  egg3 
and  biscuits  into  the  human  mill,  as  if  he  had  some  doubts  of 
ever  reaching  another  place  w^here  they  could  be  procured  to 
the  same  advantage  ;  and  Master  Brooks  Brooks,  the  freckles 
showing  worse  than  ever  on  his  pale  and  sickly-looking  face, 
whining  between  every  two  mouthfuls,  and  vociferating : 
"  Mommy,  mommy,  I've  got  a  pain  !"  and,  "Mommy,  mommy, 
I  tell  you  I  want  some  more  o'  them  are  taters  and  gravy !" 

They  were  pleasant  company  at  the  meal,  very  ! — as  they 
bad  been  at  all  previous  times  when  beaming  on  the  horizon 
of  other  travellers,  and  as  people  out  of  place  ahvays  prove 
to  be  to  those  who  surround  them  I  But  the  meal  came  to 
an  end,  the  trunks  that  held  the  remaining  finery  of  the  two 
ladies  were  safely  stowed,  the  stage-drivers  bellowed  :  "All 
aboard  I"  and  the  three  more  precious  members  of  the  Brooks 
Cunninghame  family  were  stow^ed  within  the  coach  without 
personally  causing  more  than  ten  minutes  of  hindrance,  while 
Mr.  Brooks  Cunninghame  himself,  with  a  bad  cigar  in  mouth 
and  a  surreptitiously-obtained  bottle  of  raw  whiskey  in  the 
pocket  of  his  duster,  occupied  a  seat  on  the  top  and  felt,  for 
the  time,  almost  as  happy  as  he  had  once  done  when  sur- 
mounting his  loaded  dirt-cart. 

So  Shoddy,  or  that  particular  manifestation  of  it,  at  least, 
rolled  away  from  the  Profile  House.  Whither,  is  no  matter 
of  consequence,  for  the  incidental  connection  of  the  Brooks 
Cunninghames  with  this  veracious  history  is  concluded  with 


812  THE      COWARD. 

the  exit  of  that  morning.  But  let  no  one  suppose  that  the 
travelling  world  was  thereafter  rid  of  them,  or  of  others  to 
whom  they  only  supply  a  type  and  index,  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  summer.  For  did  not  some  of  us  meet  them 
at  Niagara  later  in  the  season,  resident  at  the  Clifton  as  the 
most  aristocratic  (because  on  monarchical  ground)  of  all  the 
houses,  Mrs.  Brooks  Cunninghame  a  little  more  querulous 
and  redder  in  the  face  than  when  at  the  Notch  ;  Mr.  Brooks 
Cunninghame  a  little  trembly,  as  if  whiskey  and  idleness 
"were  beginning  to  tell  upon  his  system  ;  Miss  Marianna  still 
un-cavaliered  and  hopelessly  unexpectant  in  the  wreck  of  her 
silks,  laces,  and  jewelry ;  and  Master  Brooks  Brooks  pulling 
the  curtains  and  drumming  on  the  keys  of  the  piano  with  his 
unwashed  fingers,  pending  his  greater  opportunity  to  frighten 
ii  pair  of  horses  into  plunging  over  the  bank,  or  to  relieve  the 
future  of  a  dreary  prospect  by  himself  falling  off  Table  Rock  ? 


There  was  anothoi*  departure  from  the  Profile  House  the 
same  morning.  Whether  the  event  of  the  night  before  had 
done  any  thing  to  bring  about  that  consummation,  or  whether 
previous  arrangements  and  the  pressure  of  time  dictated 
such  a  movement — Halstead  Rowan  and  the  two  friends  in 
his  company  were  among  the  passengers  by  one  of  the 
coaches  that  went  through  to  the  Crawford,  bearing  such  as 
contemplated  an  immediate  ascent  of  Mount  Washington  from 
that  direction.  It  may  be  the  pleasant  duty  of  writer  and 
j-eader  to  overtake  them  at  the  Crawford,  at  a  very  early 
period.  .  Nothing  more  can  now  be  said  of  the  situation  in 
v/hich  the  Yanderlyn  imbroglio  and  the  Townsend  friendship 
were  left,  than  that  the  departing  man  saw  nothing  of  the 
lav/yer  after  they  parted  on  the  evening  previous,  and  that 
his  early  stage  rolled  away  long  before  the  luxurious  Yan- 
derlyns  were  likely  to  have  opened  their  eyes  at  the  summons 
of  the  first  gong  rolling  through  the  corridors  to  awaken  tbem 
for  the  regular  breakfast. 


THE      COWXJII),  313 

It  was  nearly  noon  of  that  morning  of  the  departures — a 
cloudless,  glorious  morning,  the  sun  just  warming  the  chill 
of  the  Notch  to  a  pleasant  May  air,  and  not  a  flock  of  mist 
to  dim  the  view  of  the  peaks  on  the  very  extreme  verge  of 
the  line  of  vision,  when  Horace  Townseud  strolled  down  the 
half  mile  of  road  northward  from  the  Profile,  to  Echo  Lake, 
intent  upon  entering  on  those  mysteries  which  specially 
belong  to  that  haunted  little  sheet  of  water — the  mysteries 
of  the  boat,  the  horn,  and  the  cannon.  He  was  alone,  as  he 
had  been  from  the  first  moment  of  his  coming  to  the  Notch, 
except  as  the  newly-formed  intimacy  between  Halstead 
Kowan  and  himself  had  temporarily  drawn  them  together. 
He  seemed  to  have  formed  no  other  new  acquaintance,  but 
that  was  to  be,  perhaps,  formal  and  distant ;  and  there  was 
no  certainty  that  the  incident  would  not  add  to  rather  than 
take  away  from  any  feeling  of  positive  loneliness  which  had 
before  oppressed  him. 

As  he  turned  down  the  by-road  shooting  sharply  away  to 
the  right,  with  the  Lake  glimmering  silver  in  the  sunliu'ht 
through  the  trees,  there  was  a  great  crash  of  sound,  a  deafening 
reverberation  from  the  rocks  of  Eagle  Ciiif,  hanging  immedi- 
ately over  the  Lake,  a  fainter  following,  and  then  another  and 
another,  dying  away  among  the  far-off  hills  in  the  infinite 
variety  of  the  highland  echo.  There  were  already  visitors  at 
the  Lake  ;  and  the  factotum  who  blended  the  triple  characters 
of  keeper,  guide,  and  boatman,  had  been  discharging  the 
little  old  cannon  on  the  wharf,  as  a  crowning  proof  to  some 
party  w^th  whom  he  was  just  finishing,  of  the  capacity  of  his 
lake  for  dwarfing  all  the  travelled  ones'  recollections  of  Kil- 
larney  and  the  Echo  Rocks  of  Superior. 

Such  was  indeed  the  fact,  and  as  the  lawyer  emerged  upon 
the  Lake  immediately  at  the  wharf,  he  met  the  party  who  had 
"done"  the  Lake  strolling  away,  while  the  boatman  was  re- 
arming himself  with  his  long  horn,  and  beginning  to  turn  his 
attention  to  certain  new-comers,  a  part  of  vrhoni  had  already 
taken  their  seats  in  the  big  paddle -wheeled  boat  of  which  the 


814  THE      COWAKD. 

steam  was  to  be  supplied  by  cranks  and  band-labor,  for  a 
trip  around  the  pond  with  the  dignified  name,  and  a  new 
development  of  the  capacities  of  echo.  He  had  indeed 
dropped  the  stipendiary  sum  in  currency  into  the  hand  of  the 
factotum,  and  was  about  stepping  into  the  boat  to  join  the 
party  already  miscellaneous,  before  he  discovered  that  any 
acquaintance  was  numbered  among  them.  When  he  did  so, 
for  one  instant  he  hesitated  as  if  about  to  defer  his  trip,  then 
muttered  below  his  breath  the  few  words  :  "No  ! — I  must 
take  my  chances — now  as  well  as  ever !"  stepped  in  from  the 
little  wharf  and  took  one  of  the  few  empty  seats  remaining 
near  the  stern  of  the  boat.  He  sat  looking  backward,  and 
he  was  consequently  brought  face  to  face  with  the  three 
occupants  of  the  stern  seat,  who  were  necessarily  looking 
forward.  Perhaps  his  fate  ivas  upon  that  stern  seat,  for  its 
three  occupants  were  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley,  her  daughter,  and 
Captain  Hector  Coles. 

Margaret  Hayley  paled  a  little,  then  flushed  the  least  in  the 
world  and  finally  smiled  a  proud  but  pleasant  smile  and  re- 
turned a  nod  and  a  "  good-morning,"  in  response  to  Town- 
sen  d's  comprehensive  bow  and  salutation,  w^hich  were  intended 
to  take  in  all  three.  Captain  Hector  Coles  sat  bolt  upright,  as  if 
he  had  been  riding  his  horse  on  parade,  and  moved  no  inch  from 
his  perpendicular  as  he  returned  the  greeting  in  so  formal  a 
voice  that  it  constituted  no  recognition  whatever ;  and  Mrs. 
Burton  Hayley,  to  whom  the  lawyer  had  not  been  introduced, 
had  some  excuse  for  the  supercilious  but  puzzled  stare  with 
which  she  honored  him.  The  young  girl  saw  the  glance,  and 
remembered  the  position. 

"  Oh,  ma,  I  forgot,"  she  said,  introducing.  "  Mr.  Town- 
send,  of  Cincinnati,  whose  acquaintance  I  made  yesterday 
when  he  saved  the  poor  little  boy  from  drowning,  at  the 
Pool." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  very  closely  upon  the  face  of  Town- 
send  as  she  said  these  words,  and  so  were  those  of  Captain 
Hector   Coles.     If  either  saw,  or  thought  that  they  saw,  a 


THE      COWARD.  315 

momentary  red  flash  pass  over  the  dark  countenance,  coming 
as  quickly  and  fading  as  rapidly  as  one  of  the  flashes  of  the 
Northern  Lights, — did  they  see  any  corroboration  of  the 
suspicious  of  the  evening  before,  or  was  that  flush  merely  the 
natural  expression  of  a  sensitive  man  whose  good  deeds  were 
mentioned  in  his  presence  ? 

Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  nodded,  as  she  could  not  avoid  doing 
under  such  circumstances,  but  there  was  very  little  cordiality 
in  the  nod  ;  and  there  was  something  quite  as  lofty  and  un- 
congenial in  the  manner  of  the  words  with  which  she  accom- 
panied it : 

"I  remember  hearing  my  daughter  speak  of  Mr.  Town- 
scnd's  having  been  made  the  means,  under  Providence,  of 
preventing  an  accident." 

The  ostentatious  Bible  yet  lay  upon  its  carved  stand,  oh, 
Mrs.  Burton  Hayley,  did  it  not ! 

No  farther  conversation  followed  at  that  moment,  though 
there  may  have  been  one,  and  mayhap  two,  in  that  mixed 
boat-load  of  fifteen  or  twenty,  who  would  have  been  glad  to 
pursue  it  under  more  favorable  auspices.  Certain  it  is  that 
the  lawyer  kept  his  gaze  upon  the  proudly  sweet  face  of 
Margaret  Hayley,  quite  as  steadily  as  propriety  would  by 
any  means  allow,  and  that  her  face  answered  back  something 
more  of  interest,  under  the  shade  of  her  wide  leghorn  jockey, 
than  either  of  her  immediate  companions  might  have  been 
pleased  to  see.  She  was  interested  in  her  new  acquaintance, 
beyond  a  question  :  was  she  something  more  ?  Answer  tho 
question — oh,  heart  of  woman  ! — could  it  be  possible  that  tho 
by-gone  love,  once  so  truly  a  part  of  her  very  being,  had  al- 
ready so  faded,  in  one  short  month,  that  a  feeling  warmer 
than  friendship  could  centre  around  a  mere  stranger  of  two 
days' beholding  ?  Was  that  "ideal,"  once  believed  to  have 
been  found,  then  lost  again,  presenting  itself  in  another  and 
still  more  enticing  shape,  to  make  constancy  a  myth  and 
womanly  truth  a  byword  ?     Small  data,  as  yet,  from  which  to 


S16  THE      COWAKD. 

judge  ;  but  stranger  things  than  this  have  chanced  in  the  roll 
ing  years,  and  the  faith  of  humanity  still  survived  them  ! 

Out  on  the  Lake  by  this  time  the  burlesque  upon  a  steam- 
boat had  floated,  and  the  sheet  of  water  lay  under  as  well  as 
around  the  passengers — perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  width 
and  a  mile  in  length,  shut  in  on  the  side  of  approach  by  the 
woods,  and  beyond  on  all  sides  by  the  eternal  hills,  Never  was 
silver  jewel  dotting  the  green  bosom  of  nature  more  beautiful 
— never  one  more  sweetly  nestled  away  near  the  very  heart 
of  its  mountain  nurse.  The  proverbial  winds  of  the  Notch 
for  once  were  still,  and  only  a  gentle  ripple  stirred  the  glassy 
surface  here  and  there  as  a  breath  touched  it  like  the  skimming 
wing  of  a  wild  bird.  The  meridian  sun  lay  lovingly  on  the 
side  and  crest  of  the  mountain  rising  eastward  from  the  edge 
of  the  water,  touching  its  bald,  scarred  brow  with  ruddy  gold  ; 
and  if  the  first  on  the  cliffs  nodded  at  times,  they  nodded 
sleepily  with  the  very  expression  of  repose.  Spirit  of  calm, 
delicious  quiet ! — was  there  ever  a  spot  more  truly  sacred  to 
thee,  than  Echo  Lake  at  such  moments,  when  a  few  gentle, 
loving  hearts,  close  bound  to  each  other  and  shut  in  from  the 
world,  are  beating  with  slow  pulses  as  the  life  and  centre  of 
the  great  mystery  of  nature  ?  Other  boat-loads  than  that  of 
this  July  noon,  have  grown  quiet  beneath  such  a  feeling,  as 
the  boatman  ceased  his  paddling,  the  boat  drifted  lazily  on, 
lips  grew  silent,  eyes  closed,  and  human  thought  floated  away 
on  a  very  sea  of  dreams. 

They  had  swept  over,  in  rapt  silence  for  the  last  few  mo- 
ments, until  they  lay  beneath  the  very  brow  of  the  east- 
ern mountain.  Then  that  silence  was  broken  by  the  boat- 
man rising  from  his  seat  and  blowing  a  long,  steady  blast  on 
his  six-foot  tin  horn,  in  size  and  shape  like  those  us^d  on  the 
Western  canals,  but  sadly  dinted  by  careless  use  and  fre- 
quent falling.  The  company  were  reminded,  then,  that  they 
were  floating  on  Echo  Lake  and  no  stream  of  the  land  of 
faerie.  The  long,  low  note  died  on  the  ear,  and  an  appre- 
ciable instant  of  silence  followed.     Then  it  came  back  from 


THE      COWAKD.  317 

the  brow  of  the  moutitain  above,  a  liltle  louder  than  before, 
and  yet  a  little  mellowed  by  distance.  Another  instant,  and 
tlic  same  sound  reverberated  from  the  opposite  hill,  the  back 
of  Eagle  Cliff.  Were  there  still  more  echoes  to  be  added  to 
the  t\>'o  that  had  already  made  the  place  notable  ?  Yes,  a 
third  came  back  from  the  range  that  sloped  away  from  the 
bead  of  the  Lake,  northward — a  little  fainter,  and  broken 
now ;  and  then  the  more  distant  bills  caught  the  sound,  as  if 
each  had  a  right,  which  it  jealously  claimed,  to  some  portion 
of  that  greeting  from  the  human  breath  ;  and  far  as  the  eye 
could  trace  the  blue  peaks  rising  behind  each  other  through 
the  gaps  beyond,  the  ear  could  catch  a  corresponding  rever- 
beration, fainter — fainter — fainter, — till  it  died  away  in  a 
drowsy  murmur  and  silence  followed.  Then  the  horn  passed 
from  hand  to  hand  and  from  mouth  to  mouth,  some  of  the 
gallants  perhaps  forming  kisses  of  the  touch  of  red  lips  which 
had  preceded  theirs ;  and  some  blew  round,  full  strains  that 
awakened  admiration,  and  some  made  but  a  melancholy 
whistle  which  excited  merry  laughter.  Among  the  many  ex- 
periments tried  upon  that  horn,  there  must  have  been  some 
horrid  discords  startling  the  Dryads  in  the  wooded  shades  up 
the  mountain,  where  the  gazers  sometimes  seemed  to  see  the 
echo  leaping  from  cliff  to  cliff  and  from  bough  to  bough.  But 
they  soon  came  willingly  back  to  the  •  practised  notes  of  the 
boatman  ;  and  some  of  the  party  shut  their  eyes  and  dreamed, 
as  his  quick,  sharp  peals  rang  merrily  up  among  the  hills, — ■ 
of  noble  lord  and  gentle  lady,  hunting  in  the  days  of  old,  and 
of  the  bugle  blasts  of  outlaws  sounding  through  gloomy  Ar- 
dennes or  merry  Sherwood.  Anon  he  would  end  his  strain 
with  a  long,  low  falling  note,  and  they  heard  some  old  cathe- 
dral hymn  wailing  through  solemn  arches  and  bending  the 
spirit  to  reverence  and^  prayer.  But  through  all  that  suc- 
cession of  sounds  the  hard,  dry,  practical,  exigeant  Present 
was  rolled  away  and  the  romantic,  easy  Past  stood  in  its 
stead ;  so  easily  does  the  mind,  like  the  body,  cast  off'  ita 


318  THE      COWARD. 

burthen,  whenever  permitted,  and  lie  down,  if  only  for  a  mo- 
ment,  upon  the  lap  of  indolence  ! 

Scarcely  a  word  had  been  spoken,  in  the  boat,  for  some 
minutes,  under  the  influence  of  that  spell  of  the  hour.  But 
the  normal  condition  of  humanity,  when  awake,  is  tO  keep 
the  tongue  in  motion  ;  and  not  even  the  spell  of  Echo  Lake 
could  keep  that  busy  member  still  beyond  the  customary 
period.  Comparisons  of  other  echoes,  in  our  own  and  ^ther 
lands,  were  made,  and  as  the  boatman  rowed  on  to  complete 
the  circuit  of  the  Lake,  the  conversation  became  nearly 
general. 

"Echo  Lake  looks  very  smiling  and  quiet  to-day,"  said  one 
of  the  company — the  same  old  habitue  of  the  mountains  who 
had  commenced  the  conversation  the  day  before  with  Hal- 
stead  Rowan,  at  the  Pool.  "  But  I  have  seen  it  look  very 
differently,  sometimes  when  a  gale  came  roaring  and  singing 
up  through  the  Notch,  and  the  saucy  little  thing  got  a  black 
frown  upon  its  face,  reflected  from  the  leaden  sky  and  the 
wind-tossed  trees  up  yonder.  Echo  is  blown  away,  at  such 
times,  as  any  one  would  be  who  dared  the  perils  of  this  sea 
of  limited  dimensions  ;  and  you  would  be  surprised  to  know 
how  hard  the  wind  can  blow  just  here,  and  what  little,  tum- 
bling, dangerous  waves  of  rage  the  dwarf  can  kick  up,  trying 
to  make  an  ocean  of  itself." 

"  The  most  singular  view  that  /ever  had  of  it,"  said  another, 
"I  caught  half  way  up  the  Cannon  Mountain  one  afternoon.  It 
looked  like  a  wash-bowl,  and  I  had  a  fancy  that  I  could  toss 
a  piece  of  soap  into  it  from  where  I  stood !  But  I  knew  that 
it  must  be  Echo  Lake,  for  somebody  was  blowing  a  horn  ;  and  I 
believe  there  has  never  been  an  hour  of  daylight,  since  crea- 
tion, when  a  horn  has  not  been  blowing  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood." 

"  There  is  one  more  point  of  view  in  which  to  see  it,"  said 
Horace  Townsend,  who  had  not  before  joined  at  any  length 
in  the  conversation.  "  I  mean  by  moonlight,  for  any  one 
who  is  part  night-hawk." 


THE      COWARD.  819 

"All,  have  vou  seen  it  so  ?"  asked  the  last  speaker,  witli 
interest. 

"Yes — last  night,"  answered  the  lawyer. 

"As  often  as  I  have  been  here,"  said  the  first  old  habitue, 
"  I  have  never  come  down  to  see  it  by  moonlight.  What  is 
it  like  ?" 

"  Like  something  that  I  cannot  very  well  describe,"  was 
the  answer.  "You  had  better  all  come  down  and  see  it  for 
yourselves,  before  you  leave  the  ^NTotch." 

"  Still,  you  can  give  us  some  idea,"  pursued  the  old  gen- 
tleman. 

Horace  Townsend  hesitated  and  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
when  Margaret  Hayley  said,  her  eyes  just  then  fixed  full  upon 
his  :  "  I  think  you  can,  Mr.  Townsend,  if  I  am  not  mistaken 
in  the  voice  that  I  heard  speaking  for  the  Old  Man  of  the 
Mountain,  by  the  same  moonlight,  not  many  evenings  ago." 

The  dusky  cheek  of  the  lawyer  was  full  of  red  blood  in  an 
instant.  He  had  been  overheard,  then,  in  his  half-mad  rhap- 
sody to  Rowan  and  himself.  And  she  had  heard  him,  of  all 
women ! — she  had  spoken  with  such  frankness,  not  to  say  bold- 
ness, and  that  frankness  appreciation  at  least,  if  not  admira- 
tion 1  He  might  have  uttered  something  more  about  "tak- 
ing his  chances"  then,  and  had  full  warrant  for  the  self-gratu- 
lation  I 

"  I  do  not  suppose  that  I  can  tell  you  either  what  I  saw  or 
felt,"  said  Townsend,  when  that  momentary  flush  had  died 
away  a  little  from  his  face.  "  I  will  try,  however.  I  had 
been  rolling  ten-pins  till  past  eleven,  and  it  must  have  been 
midnight  when  I  strolled  down  towards  the  Lake.  I  was  in 
hopes  that  I  should  find  no  one  here,  for  I  wished  to  see  it 
alone  as  well  as  by  moonlight ;  and  I  had  my  wish.  I  saw 
no  one  and  heard  no  one,  on  my  way  to  the  Lake  or  while 
here  ;  and  I  do  not  suppose  that  any  foot  but  my  own  pressed 
the  damp  green  velvet  that  bordered  the  edge,  or  that  any 
eye  except  my  own  and  the  All-seeiDg  one  that  looks  down 
over  all  the  world  at  all  midnights,  saw  the  placid  sheet  lying 


320  THE      COWAliD. 

iu  its  solemn  repose,  with  the  shadows  of  the  great  cliff  yonder 
reflected  on  its  bosom,  and  here  and  there  a  little  ripple  as  a 
puff  of  wind  sighed  through  the  branches,  kissed  the  silver 
surface  and  passed  over." 

The  eyes  of  the  speaker  were  full  of  humid  light  as  he  spoke, 
and  at  least  one  of  the  company  marked  the  influence  which 
seemed  to  be  upon  him — a  mood  of  high  imagination,  some- 
times seen  in  the  ardent  lovers  of  nature  when  revelling  in 
their  chosen  study,  and  though  less  dangerous  not  less  de- 
cided than  the  madness  which  habitually  fell  upon  Saul. 
There  was  something  fascinating  in  it,  to  all  who  saw  and 
heard,  even  to  those  who  held  an  intuitive  dislike  to  the  seer: 
what  must  the  fascination  have  been  to  Margaret  Ilayley, 
who  remembered  one  so  unlike  in  personal  appearance  and 
yet  so  like  in  voice  and  apparently  in  habits  of  mind,  loving 
nature  so  intently  and  describing  it  with  the  same  fervor, 
while  his  love  for  her  made  a  sacred  undertone  to  all  and 
completed  the  charm  of  look  and  word  i 

The  lawyer  needed  no  further  urging,  but  went  on  : 
**The  little  dock  there,  with  the  boats  moored  beside  it, 
and  the  hut  where  our  friend  here  keeps  his  horn  and  cannon, 
— all  lay  in  a  melancholy  quiet  which  struck  me  like  death — 
as  if  those  w^ho  frequented  them  had  gone  away  at  some 
nightfall  years  ago,  like  the  workmen  who  left  their  trowels 
in  the  mortar  of  unfinished  Pompeii  on  the  morning  of  its 
destruction, — never  to  return  again  and  yet  ever  to  be  waited 
for,  while  the  earth  kept  its  course  in  the  heavens.  I  was 
alone,  and  I  suppose  that  imagination  ran  riot  "with  me  and 
made  me  partially  a  maniac.  The  hush  was  so  awful  that  I 
dared  not  break  it,  even  by  a  loud  breath.  I  saw  the  Indians 
there,  under  yon  sweeping  trees  to  the  left,  whose  branches 
bend  down  and  almost  kiss  the  water — saw  an  Indian  canoe 
lying  there,  faces  within  it  smeared  with  war-paint  and  tho 
pointed  arrow  ready  to  twang  from  the  bow-string.  I  ex- 
pected to  hear  the  war- whoop  every  instant — expected  it, 
l^erhaps  not  in  my  human  mind  but  in  that  other  and  more 


THE      COWARD.  821 

powerful  miiul  for  which  we  are  none  of  us  quite  responsible. 
Then  I  saw — yes,  I  was  sure  that  I  saw  the  dusky  shadow  of 
a  robber  flittin<>:  along  from  pine  to  pine,  far  up  on  the  side 
of  the  cliff  there,  silent  and  dangerous  as  death,  and  ready  to 
drop  down  on  the  first  living  thing  that  passed  beneath  him. 
Then  I  saw  fiery  eyes  through  the  branches,  and  thought  that 
the  panther  and  the  catamount,  that  lurked  in  these  tangled 
woods  two  hundred  years  ago,  divided  possession  once  more 
with  the  Indians  and  were  prowling  about  for  some  late  ban- 
quet. I  do  not  think  that  it  was  fear  that  I  felt,  for  I  would 
not  have  gone  away  if  I  could,  any  more  than  I  could  have 
gone  away  if  I  would  ;  but  it  appeared  to  be  the  very  silent 
haunt  of  nature  in  her  hour  of  rest,  wherewith  nothing  but 
the  wild  and  the  savage  had  any  business;  and  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  throw  aside  the  idea  that  even  the  tread  of  a  civil- 
ized foot  must  be  a  sacrilege  that  only  life  could  atone.  Then 
there  was  a  sudden  plunge  from  the  bushes  into  the  water,  a 
few  yards  up  the  bank,  and  a  ripple  following  some  large  dark 
object  swimming  away  towards  the  other  shore.  This  was 
more  real,  and  the  feeling  of  awe  began  to  pass  away,  for  I 
knew  that  the  swimmer  must  be  a  water-rat  or  otter  that  had 
been  paying  a  midnight  visit  like  myself  and  was  now  going 
homeward  by  the  cool  and  refreshing  marine  route.  That 
was  the  first  noise  I  had  heard,  but  others  followed,  for  an 
ow^l  began  to  hoot  over  yonder  in  the  bushes  and  a  young 
eagle — I  suppose  it  must  have  been  a  young  eagle — indulged 
in  a  scream  from  the  top  of  the  Cliff,  where  I  believe  he  has  a 
habit  of  nesting.  Then  the  supernatural  and  the  imaginative 
rolled  away  after  they  had  held  me  an  hour  or  two,  and  I  was 
simply  alone  at  two  o'clock  or  a  little  later,  beside  Echo  Lake, 
only  half  a  mile  from  the  bed  that  had  been  all  that  time 
waiting  for  me.  I  took  the  warning  of  the  night-owl  and  the 
eagle,  who  no  doubt  intended  to  order  me  off  as  an  intruder, 
and  strolled  back  to  the  house.  That  is  all,  and  perhaps  quite 
enough  of  such  rambling  nonsense  as  it  is  !" 

"  Kamlj-ling  nonsense  ?"     Whatever  the  other  members  of 
20 


6T2,  T  II  K      C  O  W  A  R  I). 

the  company  may  have  thought,  evidently  Margaret  ITayley 
did  not  so  regard  it  as  she  leaned  anxiously  forward/  the 
presence  of  others  apparent!}'  forgotten,  her  eyes  fascinated 
in  a  sort  of  strange  wonder  by  something  in  the  face  of  the 
.speaker,  while  her  mind  seemed  not  less  singularly  under  the 
control  of  the  utterance  itself. 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  parody  on  a  steamboat  touched 
the  little  wharf  again  and  the  company  disembarked.  Five 
minutes  after  that  secondary  period  they  separated  from  the 
close  communion  into  which  they  had  been  transiently  thrown 
during  the  preceding  half-hour,  many  of  them  never  to  meet 
again  in  the  same  familiarity  of  intercourse,  and  perhaps  some 
of  them,  though  as  yet  inmates  of  the  same  abode,  never  to 
see  each  other'^  faces  again  in  life  !  Such  are  the  meetings 
and  the  partings  of  summer  travel  and  watering-place  exist- 
ence, to  which  the  nameless  rhymer  no  less  truly  than  touch^ 
iugly  referred  when  he  spoke  of  those  friendships  quickly 
made  and  as  quickly  broken  : 

" In  hostels  free  to  all  commauds 

Save  peuury's  and  pity's  ; — 

'*  In  common  rooms,  where  all  have  right 
To  tread  with  little  heed  or  warning, 
And  where  the  guests  of  overnight 
Are  gone  at  early  morning  ; — 

'*  By  tables  where  we  sit  at  meat — 
Sit,  with  our  food  almost  un tasted 
Because  we  find  some  vacant  seat 
From  which  a  friend  has  hasted ; — 

"  In  parlors  where  at  eve  we  sit, 

Among  the  music  and  the  dancing, 
And  miss  some  lip  of  genial  wit, 
Some  bright  eye  kindly  glancing. 

" the  haunted  chambers  left, 


That  almost  choke  us  as  we  ponder, 
And  leave  us  quite  as  much  bereft 
As  dearer  ties  and  fonder." 


THE      COWARD.  323 


CHAPTER   XYI. 

Cloud  and  Storm  at  the  Profile — Sights  and  Sensa- 
tions OF  A  Rainy-day  Ride  to  the  Crawfoud  — 
Horace  Townsend  and  Halstead  Rowan  once  more 
together — Unexpected  Arrivals — A  Cavalcade  of 
]\Iiserables — An  Ascent  of  Mount  Washington,  with 
Equestrianism  and  War-whoops  Extraordinary. 

Calms  at  sea  are  not  more  proverbially  treacherous  than 
pleasant  mornings  in  the  mountains ;  and  long  before  that 
day  closed  which  had  opened  so  auspiciously,  the  heavy 
clouds  came  driving  up  through  the  Notch  with  the  south-east 
wind.  By  nightfall  a  storm  was  inaugurated.  Thencefor- 
ward, for  two  days,  excursions  to  the  Cannon,  to  Bald  Moun- 
tain, to  Mount  Lafayette,  or  to  any  other  of  the  points  of 
scenery  so  plentiful  in  the  Franconia  Notch,  and  in  which  ex- 
cursions all  the  visitors,  however  slightly  acquainted,  are 
more  or  less  closely  thrown  into  speaking  intercourse  with 
each  other, — were  things  to  be  thought  of  but  not  attempted. 
The  stages  came  in  with  smoking  horses  and  moisture  drip- 
ping alike  from  the  hat  of  the  driver  and  the  boot  of  the 
coach  ;  but  few  passengers  arrived  or  departed.  The  bears 
walked  sullenly  their  little  round,  or  retired  periodically  to 
winter  quarters  in  their  narrow  kennels.  The  valleys  were 
filled  with  driving  mist,  varied  by  heavy  down-pouring  rain, 
and  the  mountains  hid  themselves  sullenly  from  view,  so  that 
sometimes  not  even  the  brow  of  Eagle  Cliff,  hanging  imme- 
diately over  the  house,  could  be  distinguished  through  the 
dense  clouds  that  swept  down  to  the  very  roofs.  Fires 
became  prevalent,  and  those  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  rooms 
where  the  birchen  wood  could  be  set  ablaze,  remained  closely 
sequestered  there,  dozing,  or  playing  cards  or  backgammon, 
or  once  more  turning  over  the  leaves  of  books  from  which  all 
the  novelty  had  long  before  been  extracted.     Desultory  groups 


824  THE      COWARD. 

met  at  meals,  even  the  eaters  comiug  down  sluggishly. 
Some  of  the  men  patronized  the  billiard-room  or  the  bowling- 
alley,  but  they  rarely  found  lady  partners  or  spectators,  as  in 
sunneir  days.  Even  the  hops  in  the  parlor  at  evening  were 
thinly  attended,  the  weather  seeming  to  have  affected  alike 
the  nerves  and  muscles  provocative  of  dancing,  and  the 
strings  of  the  harp,  violin  and  piano.  Those  who  happened 
to  possess  copies  of  "  Bleak  House,"  and  who  remembered 
the  marvellous  phenomena  of  rainy  w^eather  existing  at  a 
certain  time  in  and  about  the  domain  of  Sir  Leicester  Ded- 
lock,  read  the  description  over  again  and  thought  that  nothing 
could  be  more  beautifully  applicable  to  the  experience  of  storm- 
stayed  sight-seers  at  a  caravanserai  among  the  mountains. 

During  those  two  days  of  storm  and  sluggishness,  Horace 
Townsend,  merely  an  excursion  acquaintance  of  the  Hayleys 
and  Captain  Hector  Coles,  and  not  such  an  intimate  as  would 
be  likely  to  be  invited  to  backgammon  or  chat  in  one  of  their 
private  rooms, — never  once  met  Margaret  Hayley  more 
nearly  than  within  bowing  distance  when  passing  in  or  out 
of  the  dining-room  or  the  parlor.  One  or  both  may  have 
desired  to  continue  the  acquaintance  without  quite  so  much 
of  distant  familiarity  ;  but  if  so,  one  or  both  knew  the  antag- 
onistic influences  surrounding  them  and  did  not  think  proper 
to  raise  an  arm  for  buffeting  the  waves  of  separation. 

There  were  not  less  than  a  dozen  persons  remaining  at  the 
Profile,  who  had  the  ascent  of  Mount  Washington  yet  to  make 
at  an  early  day,  and  who  intended  to  make  it  in  the  good  old 
traditional  way  of  horseback  from  the  Crawford  instead  of 
acknowledging  modern  utility  and  bowing  to  the  destruction 
of  all  romance  b}'  going  up  in  carriages  from  the  Glen. 
Some  of  these,  beginning  to  be  pressed  for  time,  saw  the 
steady  rain  and  mist  with  impatience  and  found  very  little 
comfort  in  the  assurances  of  the  hotel-keepers,  guides  and 
stage-drivers,  that  the  clouds  were  not  likely  to  break  away 
under  a  week,  at  least. 

Monday  brought  this  feeling  to  a  culmination,  and  that 


T  HE      CO  W  A  K  o .  825 

morning,  spite  of  all  predictions,  the  impatient  dozen  ordered 
a  stage  and  determined  to  drive  over  to  the  Crawford  ;  be- 
speaidng  clear  weather  on  the  morrow,  or  on  the  next  day  at 
fiirthcst,  for  their  especial  accommodation.  Horace  Towmsend, 
whether  wearied  by  circumstances  which  placed  him  "  so  nenr 
and  yet  so  far"  in  his  acquaintance  with  Margaret  Ilayley,  or 
really  touched  with  the  prevailing  madness  for  forcing  Mount 
Washington  to  smile  when  that  great  mountain  wished  to  be 
sullen, — Horace  Townsend  joined  the  malcontents  and  formed 
one  of  the  closely-packed  stage-load  that  on  Monday  morning 
rolled  off  from  the  Profile  on  their  way  to  the  Crawford. 

The  voyagers  were  pursued  by  no  small  number  of  jokes 
and  jeers  from  the  piazza,  as  they  drove  away,  on  the  folly  of 
plunging  out  into  a  storm  to  accomplish  an  impossibility.  But 
if  any  one  of  the  number  felt  for  a  moment  sore  in  mind  and 
faint-hearted,  they  were  soon  consoled.  Most  of  them  (mixed 
male  and  female,  though  the  former  predominating)  were  true 
Nature-lovers  who  had  recognized  that  however  Fame  and 
Fortune  sometimes  play  cruel  tricks  upon  their  most  ardent 
votaries,  the  kind  Mother  seldom  failed  to  unveil  her  bosom 
at  the  coming  of  one  of  her  true  children.  They  had  faith  in 
the  future,  and  that  faith  was  at  once  repaid  in  the  glory  of 
the  present. 

For  those  who  have  only  made  the  twenty-five  miles  of 
stage-ride  between  the  two  places,  in  fair  weather,  can  have 
no  idea  of  the  peculiar  charms  of  that  day  of  capricious  rain 
and  floating  mist.  Closely  shut  in  the  lumbering  coach,  and 
well  enveloped  in  shawls  and  dread-noughts  and  blankets,  but 
with  the  windows  open  to  allow  looking  back  on  the  Franconia 
range  they  were  leaving, — they  enjoyed  at  intervals,  during 
all  the  earlier  portions  of  the  ride,  such  splendid  glimi)ses 
of  cloud-land  as  never  fall  to  the  lot  of  mere  fair-wealluT 
travellers. 

At  times  the  shroud  of  mist  w^hich  had  enveloped  them 
would  roll  away,  as  they  ascended  the  high  land  rising  from 
Franconia  towards  Bethlehem  ;  and  then  they  w^ould  have  the 


326  T  u  E     c  u  w  A  i;  d  . 

peaks  of  the  Frauconia  range  flecked  and  dotted  with  swales 
and  waves  and  crests  of  transparent  white  that  seemed  alter- 
nately to  be  thousands  of  colossal  sheep  lying  in  the  mountain 
pastures, — and  again  great  masses  of  the  purest  and  softest 
eider-down  which  had  floated  there  and  rested,  from  millions 
of  birds  filling  the  whole  air  above.  Mount  Lafayette  at  one 
moment,  as  some  of  the  voyagers  of  that  lucky  morning  will 
well  remember,  seemed  to  be  capped  and  crowned  with  a 
wreath  of  untrodden  snow,  miles  in  extent  and  hundreds  of 
feet  in  depth — such  as  no  mountain  ever  wore  upon  its  brow 
as  a  coronet,  from  the  first  morning  of  creation. 

Exclamations  of  pleasure  filled  the  coach,  and  jest  and 
appreciative  remark  blended  in  pleasant  proximity.  "I  shall 
always  remember  the  air  of  this  morning,"  said  one,  "  as  an 
atmosphere  of  bridal  veils,"  and  more  than  he  treasured  up 
the  comparison  as  one  worth  remembering.  "  See  here,  Cora  !'* 
said  another,  to  the  only  child  in  the  coach,  who  nestled  half 
asleep  on  the  shoulder  of  her  mother,  pointing  her  attention 
meanwhile  to  a  little  pyramidal  hill  separate  from  the  moun- 
tain range  and  at  that  point  relieved  against  it:  "  See  here, 
Cora  !  There  is  a  little  baby  mountain  !"  "  So  there  is  !" 
answered  Cora,  with  a  world  of  drollery  in  her  young  eyes, 
"  I  wonder  how  long  before  it  will  grow  to  be  as  big  as  the 
rest  of  them  !"  Whereupon  Cora  was  voted  to  have  the  best  of 
the  argument,  and  manhood  once  more  worshipped  childhood. 

Away  past  Bethlehem  and  along  the  Ammonoosuc,  an  ex- 
aggeration, in  its  rocks,  upon  all  the  other  mountain  streams, 
with  its  few  inches  of  water  finding  way  among  a  perfect  bed 
of  boulders,  and  making  the  mere  word  '' navigation"  suggest 
so  droll  an  image  in  that  connection  as  to  draw  a  loud  laugh 
from  the  whole  coach-load.  Tlien  past  a  couple  of  fishermen, 
heedless  of  the  rain,  rod  in  h.m'i  and  creel  at  side,  standing 
on  the  boulders  in  the  middle  of  the  river  and  practising  the 
mysteries  of  the  Waltoniau  art,  report  alleged  with  more 
"  flies"  assisting  than  those  which  they  carried  in  their  pocket- 
books  !     Then  on,  with  the  mist  again  closed  down  heavily, 


THE      COWARD.  827 

past  the  White  Mountain  House,  that  once,  before  the  days 
of  glory  of  the  Glt'n,  sui)plied  the  only  so-called  "carnage- 
road"  to  the  top  of  Washington. 

A  mile  or  two  more,  and  there  was  a  space  clear  from  trees 
on  the  left.  As  the  coach  swept  up  to  it  the  mists  seemed  to 
shrink  low  for  a  moment.  A  heavy,  dark  line  loomed  on  the 
sky,  with  almost  the  true  sweep  of  a  wide  Gothic  arch,  a  little 
sharpened  at  the  top.  "  How  graceful !"  was  th(^  exclama- 
tion of  one.  "How  high  I — look  ! — why  that  is  higher  than 
any  of  the  others  that  we  have  seen  !"  exclaimed  a  second. 
"Mount  Washington,"  calmly  said  a  habitue  who  caugiit  a 
glimpse  through  the  curtain  from  the  back  corner  of  the  coach  ; 
and  every  voice  joined  in  the  ciy. 

The  habitue  was  right — cloud  and  mist  had  rolled  away  for 
an  instant,  just  at  the  opp(jrtune  moment,  and  they  had  caught 
that  magnificent  first  near  view  of  the  monarch,  throned  amid 
his  clouds,  glorious  in  the  grace  of  form  and  the  awe  of  majesty 
— seeming  to  bridge  the  very  space  between  earth  and  heaven  1 
Some  of  those  favored  gazers  will  dream  of  that  first  glance, 
years  hence,  when  they  have  been  straining  the  mental  vision 
upward,  in  waking  hours,  to  that  unattainable  and  dim  which 
rises  above  the  mists  of  common  life.  Some  of  them  will 
throne  the  great  mountain  in  their  hearts,  and  stretch  out 
pleading  arms  to  it  in  remembrance,  in  the  dark  days  of  shame 
and  sorrow, — as  if  the  treading  of  their  feet  upon  its  rocky 
pinnacle  would  be  indeed  an  escape  from  the  world — as  if 
they  might  become  sharers,  indeed,  in  the  majesty  of  its  great 
solitude.  Some  of  the  travellers  felt  the  solemnity  of  the 
hour  and  the  scene,  that  day ;  and  there  was  not  even  a  sneer 
or  a  word  of  misappreciation  for  the  adventurous  genius  v/ho 
quoted,  heedleso  of  all  that  made  it  inappropriate  : 


Mount  Blanc  ir^  the  monarcli  of  mountains 

They  crowned  him  long  ago, 
On  a  throne  of  rocks,  in  a  robe  of  clouds. 

With  a  diadem  of  snow  I" 


828  THE      COWARD. 

There  was  a  brief  ride  remainincr,  then,  till  they  rolled  in 
over  a  level  road,  through  thick  overhanging  woods,  to  the 
Crawford  House  in  the  White  Mountain  Notch.  The  mi.<t 
had  closed  almost  hopelessly  down  for  the  time,  and  they 
could  only  see  occasional  glimmers  through  it  of  the  rough 
sides  of  old  Mount  Webster,  dark-browed  and  massive  as  its 
namesake.  It  was  only  in  the  brighter  air  of  morning  that 
they  were  to  take  in  the  whole  location  and  ?ee  in  front,  to 
the  right.  Mount  Willard,  wooded  on  the  side  exposed  to 
view,  but  bald  and  rugged  farther  down  the  Xotch,  like  the 
Cannon  at  Franconia ;  with  Mount  Jackson  to  the  left  in 
front,  be3'ond  it  the  still  higher  peaks  of  Mount  Webster,  and 
rising  at  the  left  iii  the  immediate  foreground  the  long  wooded 
slopes  of  Mount  Clinton,  over  which  the  foot  of  every  pilgrim 
to  Mount  Washington  from  the  Crawford  must  make  its  first 
ascent. 

The  dull  weather  had  driven  almost  all  the  visitors  w"'iiin 
doors,  at  the  Crawford  as  at  the  Profile  ;  but  as  the  splashed 
coach  rolled  up  there  was  at  least  one  recognition — that  of 
Halstead  Ro'wan  by  Horace  Townsend,  the  former,  without 
any  ap])arent  reference  to  the  humidity  of  the  atmosphere, 
lying  at  lazy  length  on  three  chairs  on  the  piazza  and  occu- 
pied with  a  cigar  and  a  cheap  novel.  He  had  "shed"  (that 
word  seems  to  express  the  fact  better  than  any  other)  his 
over-sized  glove  from  his  wounded  hand,  and  seemed  entirely 
to  have  recovered  the  use  of  that  important  member. 

New  acquaintances  become  old  and  ripen  into  friendships, 
very  soon  when  all  other  surroundings  are  totally  strange ; 
and  the  two  men,  each  so  odd  in  his  way,  greeted  each  other 
as  if  they  had  been  friends  for  a  decade  instead  of  intimates 
of  less  than  a  week.  There  may  have  been  some  bond  in 
common,  in  the  guess  which  each  could  make  of  the  thoughts 
and  entanglements  of  the  other,  calculated  to  force  that  friend- 
ship forward,  even  if  it  would  have  progressed  more  slowly 
under  other  circumstances. 


T  H  K       CO  W  A  li  D.  329 

The  first  inquiry  of  Townsend,  as  thoy  shook  each  other 
warmly  by  the  hand,  was: 

"  J>(*en  up  Mount  Washing-ton  yet  V 

"  Not  this  time  /"  answ^ered  the  other,  significantly.  "  The 
fog  has  been  nearly  thick  enough  to  swim  in,  ever  since  I 
liave  been  here,  and  I  do  not  know,  if  I  had  been  as  good  a 
swimmer  as  you,  Townsend,  whether  I  should  not  have  tried 
going  up  by  water,  as  our  friend  JSIrs.  Brooks  Cunninghnme 
went  up  the  Alps  ;  but  by  land  the  thing  has  been  impossible." 

"  Many  waiting  to  go  up  ? — or  do  they  nearly  all  go  around 
to  the  Glen,  this  season  ?"  was  the  next  inquiry. 

"No,  there  are  a  good  many  sensible  people  left,"  was  the 
reply,  in  the  same  tone  of  vivacious  rattle.  "  Think  of  going 
up  Mount  Washington  in  a  carriage  !  It  is  worse  than 
making  a  mill-race  out  of  Niagara,  or  approaching  Jerusalem, 
as  they  will  do  one  of  these  days,  I  suppose,  amid  the  rumble 
and  whistle  of  a  railroad-train." 

"Don't  undervalue  your  own  employment!"  said  Town- 
send. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not,"  was  the  reply.  "  Railroad  trains,  as  well 
as  mills,  are  very  good  things  in  their  places ;  but  I  suppose 
that  a  prejudice  will  always  exist  in  favor  of  the  fiery  chariot 
instead  of  the  balloon,  as  a  means  of  making  ascents  into  the 
celestial  regions." 

Horace  Townsend  laughed.  "  But  you  have  not  yet  told 
me  how  many  are  waiting,  or  when  you  are  really  going  up." 

"  Oh,  there  must  be  nearly  or  quite  tw^enty  of  them,  moping 
^around  the  house,  running  out  to  look  at  the  sky  every  ten 
minutes,  and  asking  the  clerk  and  the  guides  questions  that 
they  are  about  as  fit  to  answer  as  a  prairie-chicken  to  solv« 
a  problem  in  geometry  !  As  to  when  we  are  going  up — do 
you  know  ?" 

"/am  going  up  to-morrow,  whether  any  one  else  goes  up 
or  not,"  said  the  lawyer.  "And  by  the  way,  I  have  bespoken 
a  clear  day  for  that  especial  occasion." 

"  Have  you  ?     Thank  you  !     Then  I  suppose  we  can  all 


I 

330  r  HE     coward. 

g-o  up  !"  replied  the  Illinoisan,  as  if  the  information  had  been 
the  most  serious  in  the  world.  "  By  the  way — how  are  they 
all,  over  yonder  !" 

There  was  something  very  like  a  blush  on  the  face  of  the 
questioner,  and  there  was  something  varying  very  little  from 
that  phenomenon  on  the  brown  cheek  of  the  other  as  he  an- 
swered : 

"I  have  not  seen  much  of  either,"  (what  did  he  mean  by 
"  either,"  a  word  peculiarly  applying,  in  common  parlance, 
to  two?)  "  but  I  believe  that  they  are  well." 

"  Still  at  the  Profile  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  likely  to  remain  there,  for  any  thing  that  I  know 
to  the  contrary." 

"Any  news  of  any  kind  ?  Any  more  accidents  or  startling 
events  ?" 

"  Xone — 3'es,  there  is  one  startling  event.  The  Brooks 
Cunninghames  came  away  the  same  day  that  you  left.  Have 
you  got  the  old  woman  here  ?" 

"Here?  heaven  forefend  !  Xo  !"  was  the  response.  Then 
he  added  :  "  Why,  by  Jupiter,  Townsend,  you  mu.st  be  a 
wizard  or  in  some  kind  of  collusion  with  Meriam  !  See  ! — 
I'll  be  hanged  if  there  is  not  the  top  of  a  mountain  1  It  is 
clearing  away  !     Hurrah  for  Mount  Washington  !" 

He  darted  in  at  once  from  the  piazza  to  the  office,  and 
Townsend.  who  had  not  yet  even  registered  his  name  as  an 
arrival,  followed  him.  Most  of  the  other  passengers  from 
the  Profile  were  by  that  time  registered  and  scattered  away 
to  their  rooms  for  sartorial  renovation.  ^ 

A  separate  book  was  kept  at  the  office,  as  usual  at  such 
places,  over  the  head  of  each  page  of  which  was  printed  : 
"Horses  for  Mount  Washington,"  and  in  which,  every  day, 
those  who  wished  to  secure  horses  and  guides  for  the  suc- 
ceeding, or  the  first  favorable  day,  registered  their  names, 
with  the  number  of  animals  required  and  how  many  of  them 
were  to  be  ridden  by  ladies.  A  good  many  queer  auto- 
graphs might  be  observed  in  that  book  and  some  of  its  pre- 


THE      COWARD.  331 

deccp!5ors,  for  there  was  almost  always  some  mischievous 
clerk  behind  the  counter,  amusing  himself  by  telling  immense 
stories  to  some  of  the  other  initiated,  just  as  the  un-initiated 
were  coming  up  to  register  their  names, — about  the  perils  of 
the  ride  and  how  near  he  or  some  other  person  had  come  to 
falling  over  precipices  of  indefinite  thousands  of  feet.  This 
description  of  jocular  practice  very  often  shook  the  nerves  of 
young  travellers  at  the  moment  of  booking,  even  when  the 
frightened  person  was  too  far  committed  or  too  shame-faced 
to  abandon  his  project ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  origi- 
nal collection  of  chirography  thus  secured  would  prove  only 
less  interesting,  on  exhibition,  than  the  original  draft  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  or the  Emancipation  Proc- 
lamation ! 

Several  names  had  already  been  booked  at  hap-hazard  on 
the  day  in  question  ;  and  others  of  the  storm -stayed,  aware 
of  the  prospect  of  a  "  clearing-up,"  were  by  that  time  flock- 
ing around  the  book  to  secure  their  places.  To  the  collection 
already  made  were  very  soon  added  the  signatures  of  Town- 
send  and  Rowan,  who  intended,  as  neither  would  have  a  lady 
in  charge,  to  make  a  great  part  if  not  all  the  trip  together, 
while  the  two  friends  of  Rowan,  who  were  also  to  be  of  the 
ascending  party,  would  "  pair  off"  in  the  same  manner. 

This  done,  and  supper-time  approaching,  Rowan,  who  had 
been  lounging  about  in  a  sort  of  wet- weather  box-coat  undress 
which  would  have  driven  an  ultra-fashionable  to  desperation, 
ran  off  to  his  room  to  make  himself  somewhat  more  presenta- 
ble ble  ;  while  Horace  Townsend,  after  patronizing  the  barl)er- 
shop  for  five  minutes  and  providing  himself  with  that  inevita- 
ble cigar,  stepped  out  once  more  upon  the  piazza  to  glance  at 
the  weather  and  satisfy  himself  how  kind  Mother  ]S;iture 
really  intended  to  be  on  the  morrow.  He  had  but  just 
emerged  from  the  door  when  a  close  light  carriage  with  two 
pairs  of  foaming  horses — horses  and  carriage  well  covered 
with  mud, —  whirled  around  the  corner  of  the  Crawford  and 
drew  up  at  the  door.     The  driver  sprung  from  his  seat  and 


3(^2  1'  HE      COWARD. 

the  carriage  door  was  opened.  Out  of  it  stepped  first  Frank 
A'anderlyn,  then  ^Mrs.  A^anderlyn  and  her  daughter,  who,  as 
it  afterwards  appeared,  had  left  the  Profile  after  dinner  and 
driven  through  post  in  that  manner,  under  the  impression 
that  the  next  morning  might  after  all  be  a  fine  one,  and  anx- 
ious (two  of  the  three,  at  least)  to  join  any  party  which  would 
be  likely  to  make  the  ascent. 

"  Whew  !"  said  the  lawyer  to  himself,  between  two  puffs 
of  his  cigar,  as  he  recognized  the  new-comers  without  their 
seeming  to  be  aware  of  his  presence.  "  Here  is  more  of  the 
Rowan  romance  and  there  may  be  more  ten-pins  necessary. 
I  wonder  whether  that  haughty  woman  and  her  son  have  any 
idea  of  the  presence  here  of  their  friend  fro^i  Chicago,  and 
whether  they  have  driven  at  that  slapping  pace  through  the 
mud,  especially  to  be  in  his  way !  I  wonder,  too,  whether 
Rowan's  room  is  on  the  front,  so  that  he  has  seen  their  ar- 
rival. I  have  half  a  notion  to  go  up  and  apprize  him  of  it,; 
and  then  I  have  a  whole  notion  to  let  him  find  it  out  for  him- 
self, and  finish  my  cigar  before  supper  comes  in  to  spoil  it." 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  amount  of  knowledge  of 
the  movements  of  Rowan  possessed  by  the  Vanderlyns,  and 
-whether  in  making  a  new  entry  on  the  books  the  old  names 
were  or  were  not  always  looked  over. — certain  it  is  that  half 
an  hour  afterwards  the  lawyer  found  two  more  names  booked 
for  the  ascent — those  of  "  Mr.  Francis  Yanderlyn''  and  "  Miss 
Clara  Yanderlyn,"  the  mother  evidently  not  intending  to  ex- 
pose herself  to  a  fatigue  which  had  lost  its  novelty,  but  to 
await  their  going  and  return  at  the  Crawford. 

It  was  very  evident,  to  Townsend,  eventually,  that  Rowan 
did  not  know  any  thing  of  the  new  arrival  until  he  came 
down  to  supper.  The  Vanderlyns  had  taken  their  places  at 
the  table,  very  nearly  opposite  the  lawyer,  and  returned  with 
a  nod  of  pleasant  recognition  the  bow  which  he  felt  com- 
pelled to  give  them  under  the  circumstances.  Halstead 
Rowan,  as  he  came  in,  took  a  seat  on  the  same  side  of  the 
table  with  tie  new-comers,  and  it  was  only  as  he  gave  the 


THE      COWARD.  838 

customary  glance  down  after  he  had  seated  himself,  that  he 
seemed  to  recognize  the  sudden  addition  to  the  social  circle. 
AVhen  he  did  recognize  it,  the,  lawyer  (that  man  seems  to  be 
eternally  watching  the  other,  does  he  not  ?)  caught  one  in- 
stant's blank  surprise  on  his  face,  and  he  even  put  up  his 
hand  to  rub  his  eyes,  as  if  he  fancied  himself  dreaming ;  but 
the  surprise  seemed  to  fade  in  a  moment,  and  he  pursued  his 
supper  with  that  fine  appetite  which  is  usually  vouchsafed  to 
such  physical  men.  He  left  the  table  before  the  Vanderlyns 
had  finished,  and  apparently  without  their  having  observed 
him.  Townsend  rose  immediately  and  followed  him,  with 
a  smile  upon  his  face  of  which  he  was  himself  unconscious. 
He  saw  the  Illinoisan  go  into  the  office  and  do  precisely  what 
he  [the  lawyer]  would  have  laid  a  heavy  stake  that  he  would 
do — step  to  the  counter  and  look  over  the  list  of  "  Horses  for 
Mount  Washington."  Then  a  queer  expression,  nearer  to 
malicious  pleasure  than  any  thing  the  other  had  before  seen 
upon  his  face,  flitted  over  it  as  he  recognized  the  names.  It 
might  have  been  merely  satisfaction — it  might  have  been  de- 
fiance blended  with  it  in  equal  proportions  ;  but  at  least  it 
seemed  to  be  capable  of  translation  into  words  like  these, 
which  the  very  lips  moved  as  if  they  would  utter : 

**  So,  Baltimore  people,  you  are  running  yourselves  into 
my  way  again,  after  I  had  gone  off  and  left  you  alone,  like  a 
good  fellow  !  You  had  better  be  poorer  and  less  proud,  or  I 
richer ;  or  you  had  better  keep  the  distance  which  I  put 
between  us  !" 

A  few  moments  after  he  approached  Townsend  with  a 
laugh  of  deprecation  and  invited  him  to  another  game  of  ten- 
pins, which  seemed  to  be  quite  as  necessary  to  him  when  in 
a  good  humor  as  when  in  a  rage.  The  invitation  was  ac- 
cepted, and  the  important  contest  began  once  more.  It 
would  have  been  a  very  unequal  one,  for  Rowan  had  fully 
recovered  the  use  of  his  right  hand,  but  that  the  alleys  them- 
selves had  something  to  say  in  the  matter.  Worse  apologies 
for  alleys  than  those  of  the  Crawford  no  man  ever  saw ;  and 


33i  THE      COWARD. 

such  a  thing  q<^  a  "  ten-strike"  had  never  been  recorded  on 
the  bhick-boards,  as  made  on  those  lonj^  lines  of  uneven  and 
floor-laid  planks.  Both  the  combatants  had  quite  enough  to 
do  in  getting  down  a  "  frame"  with  three  balls  ;  and  for  some 
time  not  a  word  outride  of  the  game  escaped  either. 

Suddenly,  and  when  he  had  rolled  two  of  the  three  balls 
at  the  defiant  pins,  Rowan  stopped  short  with  one  of  the 
lignum-vitae  globes,  of  about  the  size  of  a  human  head,  in 
his  hand — twirling  it  the  while  as  if  it  had  been  a  paper 
balloon, — and  said,  in  a  short,  curt  tone  : 

'*  They  have  come  !" 

"Yes,"  answered  Townsend,  not  pretending  for  a  moment 
to  be  doubtful  about  the  meaning  of  the  personal  pronoun. 
"  Yes,  I  saw  them  at  supper." 

"  Going  up  with  us  to-morrow,  I  believe  !*'  added  the  111- 
inoisan. 

''Ah,  indeed,  are  they  ?"  was  the  Jesuitical  inquiry  of  the 
lawyer. 

"  Yes,  and  they  wn'll  have  good  company,  won't  they  !" 
was  the  response. 

Then  he  bowled  away  at  the  ten-pins,  more  energetically 
than  ever,  and  with  something  in  his  manner  and  the  nervous 
jerk  of  his  arm,  that  once  more  recalled  Townsend's  idea  of 
his  feeling,  while  in  the  act,  like  shooting  some  one  down  a 
mountain  precipice  like  a  pebble-stone,  or  sweeping  away  a 
fate  like  a  cobweb  with  one  of  those  polished  globes  of  iron 
wood. 

Only  a  couple  of  games,  and  then  they  went  in  to  bed  with 
a  mutual  reminder  that  the  motto  in  the  morning  would  be 
"to  horse  and  away  !"  and  that  above  all  things  they  must  be 
w^atchful  against  that  phase  of  indolence  vulgarly  known  as 
"oversleeping."  The  house  was  nearly  silent,  all  the 
prospective  riders  having  retired  for  the  night,  and  soon 
slumber  fell  upon  that  hive  of  human  bees  wandering  in 
search  of  the  honey  of  unlaboring  pleasure,  gathered  under 
the  roof  of  Gibb  and  Hartshorne  at  the  Crawford. 


THE      C  O  W  A  K  D.  835 

Fell,  but  not  too  deeply,  for  that  wliicb.  is  to  be  brief  has  a 
ri!2:bt  to  be  intense  ;  and  the  hours  of  repose  were  relentlessly 
numbered.  Neither  Townsend  nor  -Rowan  need  have  been 
anxious  about  wakinj?  in  the  morning  ;  for  such  a  blast  and 
roar  of  horrible  sound  as  swept  through  the  corridor  at  about 
seven,  A.  M.,  from  the  big  Chinese  gong  in  the  hands  of  an 
enthusiastic  negro  who  probably  felt  that  he  had  no  other  op- 
portunity of  making  his  requisite  "  noise  in  the  world,"  would 
have  been  sufficient  to  awaken  any  thing  short  of  the  dead  I 
For  once,  every  one  obeyed  the  summons  while  anathema- 
tizing the  mode,  and  the  breakfast-table  was  soon  surrounded. 

Here,  those  who  labored  under  some  kind  of  indefinite  im- 
pression that  the  summit  of  Mount  Washington  was  some- 
where beyond  the  Desert  of  Arabia — that  nothing  eatable  or 
drinkable  could  ever  be  discovered  on  its  top — and  that  the 
more  they  ate  the  better  able  they  would  be  to-  endure  the 
fatigue  of  the  ascent, — made  vigorous  attacks  on  the  steaks, 
eggs  and  chickens,  and  drank  coffee,  milk  and  cold  water  with- 
out limit.  Those  better  advised  (and  the  fact  is  here  set  down 
as  a  bit  of  practical  experience  w^orth  heeding), — those  who 
knew  the  painful  elfect  of  attempting  to.  climb  a  mountain 
when  gorged  to  repletion  (the  traveller,  not  the  mountain — 
the  mountain  is  always  full  of  ''  gorges") — those,  we  say,  con- 
fined themselves  to  an  e^g  or  two  and  a  small  slice  of  rare 
steak,  and  drank  lightly. 

When  the  party  one  by  one  dropped  out  from  '  ■  -ikfast, 
the  scene  in  front  of  the  house  was  at  once  picture.-i;!ii'  and 
singular — worth  remembering  by  those  who  shared  in  it  or 
who  have  shared  in  one  similar, — and  worth  the  feeble  at- 
tempt at  verbal  daguerreotype  which  may  do  something  to 
preserve  it  against  that  day  when  the  Crawford  decays  and 
Mount  Washington  is  either  levelled  off  or  ascended  by  means 
of  a  locomotive  or  a  dumb-waiter 

More  than  twenty  names — somewhat  more  than  half  of 
ihem  belonging  to  ladies — were  on  the  book  for  the  ascent ; 
tnd  a  corresponding  number  of  horses  were  scattered  over 


836  THECOWARD. 

the  broad  open  space  in  front  of  the  door.  All  were  saddled 
and  bridled  ;  but  among  them  moved  half-a-dozen  gnides  in 
rough  coats,  thick  boots  and  slouched  hats,  inspecting  and 
tightening  the  girths,  looking  to  the  cruppers  and  bridles, 
and  paying  especial  attention  to  the  animals  provided  for  the 
female  portion  of  the  cavalcade,  for  whose  safety  they  ever 
hold  themselves  and  are  ever  held  by  the  hotel-proprietors, 
peculiarly  responsible. 

By  way  of  back-ground  to  this  singular  scene,  under  a  clump 
of  trees  to  the  right  walked  two  full-grown  black  bears  (no 
mountain  resort  can  be  thoroughly  complete  without  its 
bears  !) — chained  and  surly,  ever  keeping  their  weary  round 
and  grunting  out  their  disapprobation  at  being  confined  to 
such  narrow  quarters  without  an  occasional  naughty  youngster 
for  lunch. 

But  what  a  spectacle  was  presented  when  the  mount  was 
ready  and  the  riders  had  all  emerged  from  the  door  of  the 
Crawford  !  Were  these  the  belles  and  beaux  of  previous 
days,  captivating  and  being  captivated  by  perfection  of 
raiment  as  well  as  charm  of  face  and  grace  of  figure  ? 
If  so,  never  had  such  a  metamorphosis  taken  place  since  long 
before  Ovid.  Every  man  wore  some  description  of  slouched 
hat,  brought  in  his  baggage  or  hired  in  the  hotel  wardrobe, — 
bad,  very  bad,  atrocious,  or  still  worse,  and  each  tied  down 
over  the  ears  with  a  thick  string  or  a  handkerchief.  Coarse 
and  old  trowsers  were  turned  up  over  heavy  boots ;  and  the 
roughest  and  coarsest  of  box-coats  that  could  be  provided 
were  surmounted  in  the  majority  of  instances  by  striped 
Guernsey  shirts  still  rougher.  All  the  dilapidated  gloves 
and  coarse  tippets  that  could  be  mustered,  with  a  few  shawls 
and  blankets,  completed  the  equipment  of  a  set  of  men  who 
certainly  looked  too  badly  even  for  brigands  and  seemed  the 
enforced  victims  of  some  hideous  masquerade. 

But  if  the  men  looked  badly,  what  shall  be  said  of  that 
which  should  have  been  the  fairer  portion  of  the  cavalcade  ? 
Salvator  Rosa  never  dreamed  of  such  objects,  and  Hogarth 


THE      COWARD.  o37 

Avonld  have  gone  stark  mad  in  tlie  attempt  to  depict  them. 
Kinglets  were  buried  under  mob-caps  and  old  woollen-hoods, 
and  smothered  in  bad  straw  hats  and  superannuated  felt 
jockeys,  tied  down  in  the  same  ungraceful  manner  as  those 
of  the  men.  Hoops  had  suddenly  ceased  to  be  fashionable, 
even  in  advance  of  the  sudden  Quaker  collapse  in  the  cities ; 
and  every  shape,  bulky  or  lank,  showed  in  its  own  undis- 
guised proportions — here  a  form  of  beauty,  there  a  draped 
lamp-post,  and  yonder  a  bedizened  bolster.  In  short,  the 
very  worst  riding-dresses  possible  to  achieve  seemed  to  have 
been  carefully  gathered  from  all  the  old-clothes  shops  in  the 
universe  ;  and  if  the  men  were  the  ugliest  brigands  of  the 
dark  souled  Italian  painter,  the  women  were  the  drollest 
witches  that  ever  capered  through  the  brain  of  the  master- 
dramatist. 

And  yet  there  were  sparkling  eyes  showing  occasionally 
from  under  those  hideous  bonnets,  that  perhaps  looked  the 
brighter  for  the  contrast ;  and  it  is  not  sure  that  one  or  two 
of  the  sweet  auburn  curls  of  Clara  Yanderlyn,  which  had 
strayed  away  from  their  confinement  and  lay  like  red  gold  on 
the  neck  of  her  shabby  black  riding-dress,  could  ever  have 
shown  to  more  bewitching  advantage. 

Every  one  laughed  at  the  appearance  of  the  other,  as 
the  mount  was  taking  place,  and  as  Hartshorne,  of  the 
Crawford,  who  seemed  to  have  measured  the  capabilities  of 
every  horse  and  calculated  the  weight  and  skill  of  every 
rider,  called  off  the  names  from  the  roll-book,  and  gave  place 
to  each  in  turn. 

Of  the  material  of  the  mount,  it  is  only  necessary  to  specify 
three  or  four  of  the  horses,  which  have  to  do  with  the  subse- 
quent details  of  that  eventful  excursion.  Miss  Yanderlyn 
bad  a  neat  little  black  pony,  apparently  very  careful  in  step, 
and  an  "old-stager"  at  ascending  the  mountains.  Her 
brother  Frank  rode  a  tall  bay,  of  high  spirit  and  better  action 
than  any  other  horse  on  the  ground.  Rowan  had  asked 
Hartshorne  (some  of  the  others  heard  him,  with  a  sensation 
21 


338  THE      COWARD. 

of  genuine  horrov)  to  give  him  the  worst-tempered  horse  in 
the  stable ;  and  as  lie  was  known  to  he  an  old  habitue  of  the 
mountains,  he  had  been  accommodated  according  to  request. 
So  far  as  could  be  discovered  by  his  action,  his  horse,  a  bay 
of  fifteen  and  a  half  or  sixteen  hands,  with  '  '  foot  and 
bottom,  would  kick,  bite,  strike,  run  away,  shy  one  side, 
and  do  every  thinir  else  wicked  and  unsafe  that  should  taboo 
a  horse  from  being  ridden  at  all, — except  stumble,  from  which 
latter  fault  he  was  remarkably  clear.  Townsend  was  accom- 
modated with  a  gray  mare  of  moderate  size  and  a  dash  of 
Arab  blood,  that  had  been  unused  for  nearly  a  month  from 
having  nearly  broken  the  neck  of  one  of  the  })roprietors,  on 
his  personal  allegation  that  he  was  at  least  a  fair  rider,  and 
that  the  breaking  of  his  own  neck  would  be  the  least  damage 
that  could  be  inflicted  on  any  member  of  the  i)arty. 

Thick  morning  mists  still  hid  the  tops  of  Mount  Webster 
and  Mount  Willard,  visible  from  the  house,  and  hung  amid 
the  heavy  woods  of  Mount  Clinton,  although  the  storm  had 
really  passed  away  with  the  night, — as  at  nine  o'clock,  all 
mounted,  the  guides  took  their  places,  one  at  the  head  of  the 
cavalcade  and  the  others  scattered  at  intervals  through  it, 
and  the  whole  line  moved  off  up  the  mountain.  It  should  be 
mentioned  here,  however,  that  Townsend  (the  observer 
again)  saw  during  the  mount  the  only  recognition  which 
took  place  between  the  two  principal  persons  of  his  outside 
drama — Halstead  Rowan  and  Clara  Yanderlyn.  Frank  was 
mounting  his  horse,  after  having  assisted  his  sister  to  her 
saddle,  when  Ptowan  brushed  by  her  on  his^vicious  bay,  very 
near  her  and  to  the  left.  He  saw  their  eyes  meet,  and  saw 
Rowan  bend  so  low  that  his  head  almost  touched  the  neck 
of  his  horse.  Clara  Yanderh^i  replied  by  a  gesture  quite  as 
mute  and  quite  as  unlikely  to  be  observed  by  any  one  not 
especially  watchful.  She  nodded  her  head  quickly  but 
decidedly,  and  threw  the  roughly-gloved  fingers  of  ker  left 
luittd  to  her  lips.  That  was  all,  and  of  course  unobserved  by 
Frank  Yanderlyn,   who  mav  or  mav  not  have  been  aware 


THE      COWARD.  839 

that  the  man  whom  he  had  insulted  was  a  member  of  the 
ascending-  party  ;  but  it  was  quite  enough,  beyond  a  doubt, 
to  set  the  blood  boiling  in  the  veins  of  the  lllinoisan  with  all 
the  fury  of  the  water  surging  up  in  flame  and  smoke  in  the 
Iceland  Geysers. 

T\owan  and  Townsend  had  places  assigned  them  near  the 
middle  of  the  line,  but  as  the  cavalcade  began  to  move,  the 
human  demon  of  unrest  was  missing  from  his  place,  lie 
was  to  be  seen  at  the  end  of  the  piazza  at  that  moment,  talk- 
ing to  Hartshorne,  and  no  doubt  making  a  few  additional  in- 
quiries as  to  the  character  of  the  amiable  animal  he  bestrode. 
The  lawyer  called  out  to  him  to  ''  Come  on  !"  but  he  an- 
swered with  a  wave  of  the  hand  and  a  shout : 

"Go  ahead!  don't  wait  for  me  I  1  will  be  with  you 
directly  !" 

Through  the  thick  woods  of  Mount  Clinton  they  swept  up, 
over  a  bridle-path  so  rough  as  to  have  made  the  most 
laborious  if  not  the  most  dangerous  walking — over  great 
boulders  of  stone  lying  in  the  very  path,  and  apparently  im- 
possible to  get  over  or  around — over  patches  of  corduroy 
road  utterly  defying  description,  except  to  the  men  who 
isolated  Fort  Donelson  and  planted  the  Swamp  Angels  in 
the  marshes  of  Charleston — over  and  through  gutters  and 
gulches  of  slippery  stone  and  more  slippery  mud — but  ever 
ascending  at  a  painful  acclivity.  The  horses  breathed 
heavily  ;  and  their  riders,  in  the  thick  and  foggy  air,  did 
little  better.  They  caught  occasional  glimpses  through  the 
trees,  down  the  sudden  slopes  at  the  left,  of  the  thick  mist 
rolling  below,  but  could  see  nothing  else  to  remind  them 
of  the  height  they  were  attaining;  and  as  the  dense  fog 
swept  in  their  faces,  and  the  trees  dripped  moisture  on  them 
when  they  swept  beneath  their  branches,  and  the  path  grew 
more  and  more  desolate  and  diCQcult,  they  grew  silent,  the 
whole  cavalcade,  apparently  by  common  consent.  There  are 
aspects  in  which  Nature  looks  and  feels  too  solemn  for  the 
light  word  and  the  flippant  jest;    and  the  man  who  cannot 


840  THK      COWARD. 

be  awed  licyond  his  ordinary  mood  whon  standing  under  the 
edge  of  the  sheet  of  Niagara,  or  beside  the  sea  when  it  is 
lashed  into  resistless  fury,  or  in  gale  and  mist  on  the  bleak, 
bare,  desolate  mountains  of  the  North,  should  never  insult 
the  grand  and  the  terrible  by  going  into  their  presence  ! 

And  yet  all  persons,  who  have  true  reverence  in  their  hearts, 
are  not  always  awed  beyond  themselves,  even  in  the  most 
impressive  of  situations  :  as  witness, to  some  degree,  the  inci- 
dents following. 

They  had  surmounted  the  first  acclivity,  perhaps  a  mile 
from  the  Crawford,  and  were  commencing  a  slight  descent 
\vhich  made  every  rider  look  to  the  horse's  feet  and  ride  with 
a  slight  tremor, — when  the  stillness  was  suddenly  broken  in 
a  manner  which  almost  curdled  the  blood  of  the  timid  and 
needed  a  second  reassurance  for  even  the  boldest. 

"Pop-pop-pop-pa-hoo  !  Iloo-hoo-oo-oo  !"  came  from  the 
path  below,  v.ith  that  hideous  power  and  distinctness  of  lungs 
that  have  chilled  so  many  hearts  and  whitened  so  many  faces 
since  the  white  man  first  intruded  on  the  hunting-grounds  of 
the  American  Indian.  A  shrill,  dissonant,  horribk  3'ell,  com- 
bining the  blind  ferocity  of  the  beast  with  the  deadlier  rage  of 
man,  such  as  made  the  poor  mother  clasp  her  babe  closer  to 
the  breast  when  it  rang  around  the  block-houses  of  Massa- 
chusetts and  New  York  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries — such  as  less  than  three  years  ago  proved  that  it 
w^as  undying  in  the  savage  throat,  by  pealing  over  the  mangled 
bodies  and  burned  dwellings  of  the  Minnesota  massacres. 

"  Good  heavens  ! — what  is  that  ?"  cried  half  a  dozen  of  the 
ladies  in  a  breath. 

"An  Indian  war-whoop,  certainly  !"  said  one  of  the  gentle- 
men, his  face  white  as  wax  at  the  sudden  shock. 

"  It  is  war  time,  and  they  tell  me  that  the  rebels  yell  terri- 
bly !"  said  one  of  the  ladies.  "  Can  it  be — "  but  then  the 
absurdity  of  the  idea  struck  her  and  she  paused. 

^'Albert  Pike  was  a  New  England  man :  perhaps  he  is  here 


THE      COWAKD.  341 

witli  his  Arkansas  savages  !"  said  another,  whether  in  jest  or 
earnest  no  one  could  well  discover. 

It  was  surprising  how  in  that  one  instant  the  cavalcade  had 
shortened  its  length — the  foremost  stopping  and  the  rearmost 
closing  up.  Man  is  a  gregarious  animal,  especially  when  a 
little  surprised  or  frightened  ! 

Perhaps  Horace  Townsend  had  been  as  badly  startled  as 
any  of  the  others,  at  the  first  instant ;  but  he  possessed  some 
data  which  the  others  lacked  for  discovering  the  source  of  the 
warlike  yell. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  ladies  I"  he  said,  after  an  instant.  "I 
think  there  is  only  one  Indian  uttering  that  horrible  sound, 
and  you  may  depend  upon  it  that  he  is  white  and  no  rebel. 
Yes — see  ! — here  he  comes  !" 

They  had  been,  as  already  indicated,  descending  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  of  most  difficult  and  dangerous  path,  in  which  every 
rider  experienced  more  or  less  of  tremor,  and  over  which  the 
horses  were  picking  their  careful  way  as  if  they  realized  that 
human  necks  were  in  peril.  At  the  instant  when  the  atten- 
tion of  the  company  was  thus  directed  backwards,  Halstead 
Rowan  had  reached  the  top  of  the  rise,  behind,  and  was  just 
giving  vent  to  a  second  and  supplemental  yell  which  rang 
through  the  woods  as  if  a  dozen  throats  had  taken  part  in  it, 
and  which  must  have  been  heard  half  way  down  the  Xotch. 

"  Pop-pop-pop-pa-hoo  I     Hoo-hoo-oo-oo  !" 

The  rider  was  commencing  the  descent,  too,  but  not  pre- 
cisely like  the  rest,  picking  his  v{nj,  on  a  careful  half-trot, 
half-walk ;  on  the  contrary  his  horse  had  his  ears  laid  back 
and  was  going  over  the  broken  stones  at  such  a  gallop  as  he 
might  have  held  on  an  ordinary  highway  !  The  reins  seemed 
to  be  lying  loose  on  his  neck,  and — could  those  horrified  people 
believe  their  eyes  ? — so  surely  as  they  were  threading  the 
tangled  woods  of  Mount  Clinton,  with  thankful  hearts  for 
every  rood  passed  over  without  broken  necks,  so  -surely 
Halstead  Rowan,  a  novel  description  of  Mazeppa  unknown 
even  to  Frank  Dre^^ior  Adah  Isaacs,  sat  his  horse  in  what  might 


34:2  THE      COWARD. 

be  called  "reverse  order,"  his  back  towards  them  and  his  face 
to  the  animal's  tail  ! 

"  Good  heavens  !"  "  The  man  is  mad  !"  "  Oh,  do  stop  the 
horse!"  "  It  is  running  away  with  him  !"  He  will  be  killed  !" 
— such  were  the  exclamations  that  broke  from  the  party  as 
Rowan's  equestrianism  was  recognized — most  of  them  from 
the  female  portion  of  the  cavalcade.  What  would  it  not  have 
been  worth  to  see  sweet  Clara  Tanderlyn's  face  at  the  moment 
when  she  first  realized  who  was  the  reckless  rider,  and  to 
know  whether  she  cared  for  his  welfare  at  all  and  whether 
anxiety  or  confidence  predominated  in  her  thought ! 

But  the  rider  did  not  pause,  or  seem  very  much  in  peril. 
His  horse  kept  his  feet  quite  as  well  as  any  of  the  others;  and 
Townsend  remembering  the  Comanches  and  the  Arapahoes, 
was  forced  to  believe  that  the  wild  equestrian  must  have  the 
alleged  Indian  power  of  communicating  his  own  will  to  his 
horse,  and  that  he  could  ride  almost  anywhere  and  in  any 
manner,  in  safety. 

Rowan  drew  the  reins  (which  he  had  in  his  hands,  after 
all)  as  he  came  up  with  the  cavalcade,  and  said  : 

"I  hope  I  did  not  startle  any  of  3'ou  ladies  with  my  Indian 
w^hoop.  Upon  my  honor  I  did  not  mean  to  do  so,  if  I  did ; 
for  I  hate  practical  jokes  that  cause  pain,  quite  as  much  as 
any  of  the  other  fellows,  the — gentlemen.  But  the  woods 
tempted  me,  and  I  have  not  enjoyed  such  an  opportunity  for 
the  use  of  the  lungs,  this  many  a  day." 

"  I  believe  some  of  us  were  a  little  frightened  for  a  moment, 
but  no  harm  done,,"  said  Horace  Townsend.  "  But  let  me 
ask  you — is  not  your  riding  just  a  little  bit  careless  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  just  the  very  least  bit  in  the  world,  perhaps, 
for  some  people  !"  answered  the  wild  fellow  ;  and  Townsend 
fancied  that  he  caught  him  trying,  at  the  moment,  to  catch  a 
glimpse,  unseen  by  Frank  Yanderlyn,  under  the  hood  of 
Clara,  who  was  not  very  far  from  him.  If  he  did  make  the 
attempt,  he  failed,  for  the  young  girl  dared  not  or  would  not 
expose  her  face.     "But  come,  Townsend,"  Rowan  added, 


THE      CO  W  A  i:  \).  3-13 

•'will  jou  not  push  on  with  me  a  little  further  ahead  and  let 
)hese  slow  coaches  come  up  at  tlieir  leis^ure  ?" 

"At  your  rate  of  progress?  No,"  laurrhed  Townsend. 
"I  am  not  a  very  bad  rider,  I  believe,  but  I  have  never  prac- 
tised in  a  circus  or  on  a  prairie.  Go  ahead,  if  you  are  in  a 
hurry;  that  is,  provided  you  know  which  end  is  going  fore- 
most !" 

"  Found  another  place  where  you  will  not  follow  me,  eh, 
old  boy  !"  rattled  the  Illinoisan,  with  a  reference  which  the 
other  easily  understood.  "  Well,  I  will  see  you  by-and-bye, 
then.  Go  along,  Bay  Beelzebub  !"  and  the  next  moment, 
darting  by  the  centre  line  and  taking  precedence  even  of  the 
leading  guide,  in  a  path  that  was  literally  nothing  but  a 
three-cornered  trough,  he  was  to  be  seen  ascending  the  next 
rise,  his  horse  trotting  along  riderless,  and  himself  springing 
from  crag  to  crag  beside  the  path,  his  hand  upon  the  animal's 
back  and  the  reins  lying  loose  on  its  neck.  He  had  alighted, 
of  course,  without  checking  the  speed  of  the  horse  in  any 
degree. 

But  a  few  minutes  later,  and  when  the  cavalcade  had 
reached  the  top  of  Mount  Clinton  and  was  coming  out  from 
the  gloom  of  the  heavy  woods  into  the  partial  sunshine, — 
they  saw  the  odd  equestrian  riding  over  a  portion  of  road 
that  was  onh'  moderately  bad,  standing  erect  on  his  horse's 
back,  supported  by  the  reins  and  his  own  powers  of  balanc- 
ing,— and  heard  his  deep,  cheery  voice  ringing  out  in  a  song 
that  seemed  as  complete  a  medley  as  his  own  character.  It 
may  be  permissible  to  put  upon  record  one  of  the  stanzas, 
which  some  of  those  nearest  him  caught  and  remembered  : 

"The  lieart  bowed  down  by  weiglit  of  wo — 

Wh^n  comin'  thro'  the  rye  ? 
If  I  had  a  donkey  wot  wouldn't  go — 

Good-hye,  tny  love,  good-hye  ! 
I  see  them  on  their  winding  way  : 

Old  clothes,  old  clothes  to  sell  ! 
So  let's  be  happy  while  we  may — 

Lost  Uahel  !" 


8-i4:  THE      COWARD. 

Still  later,  the  riders  were  all  thrown  into  momentary 
horror  by  coming  upon  him,  as  they  rounded  the  head  of  a 
gorge  near  the  top  of  Mount  Prospect, — his  horse  on  a  walk, 
and  himself  hanging  over  one  side,  apparently  by  the  heels. 
The  impression  prevailed  that  he  must  have  been  knocked 
senseless  by  a  limb,  in  some  of  his  pranks,  and  got  his  feet 
fatally 'entangled  in  the  stirrups, — the  result  of  which  impres- 
sion was  that  a  sudden  scream,  in  a  woman's  voice,  burst  out 
from  some  portion  of  the  line,  but  so  instantaneously  sup- 
pressed that  no  one  could  trace  it.  It  turned  out  that  in  this 
last  operation,  so  far  from  being  killed,  he  was  only  practising 
the  Indian  mode  of  hanging  beside  his  horse,  supported  by 
one  hand  at  the  neck  and  one  foot  over  the  saddle,  after  the 
manner  of  the  wild  tribes  of  the  Plains  when  throwing  the 
horse  as  a  shield  between  themselves  and  the  shot  of  a 
pursuer ! 

After  a  time,  however,  the  reckless  fellow  seemed  to  have 
grown  tired  of  his  humor ;  for,  as  the  long  line  crossed  over 
the  peak  of  Prospect  to  Monroe,  and  the  north  wind  and  the 
sun  had  so  driven  away  the  clouds  that  the  riders  began  to 
realize  the  glorious  prospect  opening  upon  them  on  every 
hand, — he  took  his  place  in  the  line,  next  to  his  deserted 
comrade  Townsend,  sat  bis  horse  like  a  Christian,  and  joined 
in  the  bursts  of  admiration  vented  on  all  sides,  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  showed  that  the  scenery  had  never  palled 
upon  him  by  familiarity. 

And  what  views  indeed  were  those  that  burst  upon  them 
as  they  crossed  from  Franklin  to  Monroe,  and  that  sea  of 
which  the  stiffened  waves  were  mountains  stretched  out  for 
an  hundred  miles  in  every  direction  !  Some  there  were,  in 
that  line,  who  had  stood  on  the  prouder  and  more  storied 
peaks  of  Europe,  and  yet  remembered  nothing  to  diminish 
the  glory  of  that  hour.  How  the  deep  gorges  slept  full  of 
warm  sunlight,  and  how  the  dark  shadows  flitted  over  them, 
and  flickered,  and  thinned,  and  faded,  as  one  bv  one  the  light 
clouds  were  driven  southward  bv  the  wind  !     AYith  what  a 


THE      COWARD.  345 

shudder,  passing  over  the  narrow  ridge  or  back-bone  connecting 
Monroe  and  Franklin,  they  looked  down  into  "  Oakes'  Gulf" 
on  the  right  and  the  "Gulf  of  Mexico"  on  the  left,  only 
separated  by  a  yard  of  bushy  rock  from  a  descent  of  three 
thousand  feet  on  one  side,  and  by  less  than  three  yards  of 
slippery  stone  from  more  than  two  thousand  feet  on  the 
other  ! 

The  path  is  a  sort  of  narrow  trough,  rough  enough,  but 
quite  as  safe,  and  to  those  who  keep  it  there  is  not  the  least 
possible  danger.  Indeed  the  rider,  half  hidden  in  the  trough, 
scarcely  knows  the  fearful  narrowness  of  the  bridge  over 
which  he  is  passing;  and  thousands  cross  this  pass  and 
recross  it,  and  bring  away  no  idea  of  the  sensation  that  may 
be  gained  by  a  little  imprudent  hanging  over  the  verge  on 
either  side  !  None  of  the  riders  in  that  cavalcade  went  back 
to  their  beds  at  the  Crawford  without  a  much  more  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  capabilities  of  that  situation  ;  but  of  this  in 
due  time. 

It  is  impossible  for  any  one  who  has  never  made  a  similar 
ascent,  or  who  has  only  ascended  with  a  much  smaller  number, 
to  conceive  the  appearance  made  by  that  score  of  equestrians 
at  various  points  when  crossing  the  open  but  uneven  peaks  in 
the  last  approach  to  Washington.  Varied  in  stature,  sex  and 
costume,  and  all  sufficiently  outre  to  astonish  if  not  to  horrify, 

what  views  the  leading  riders  of  the  line  could  catch  at 

times,  looking  back  at  the  motley  line  !  Some  half  buried  in 
the  trough  of  the  path  or  midway  in  a  gulch,  so  that  only  the 
head  would  be  visible  ;  others  perched  on  the  very  top  of  a 
huge  boulder,  ascending  or  descending  ;  some  clinging  close  to 
mane  or  neck  as  the  horse  scrambled  up  an  ascent  of  forty 
degrees  ;  others  lying  Avell  back  on  the  saddle  when  descend- 
ing a  declivity  of  the  same  suddenness.  What  dreams  of  the 
Alps  and  the  Apennines  there  are  in  such  ascents — dreams  of 
the  toilers  over  St.  Gothard  and  the  muleteers  of  the  Pyrenees 
— dreams  of  menrory  pleasant  to  those  who  have  such  past 
experiences  to  look  back  upon,  and  substitutes  no  less  pleasant 


846  THE      COWARD. 

to  many  who  long  for  glances  at  other  lands  but  must  die  with 
only  that  far-off  glimpse  of  the  fulness  of  travel  which  Moses 
caught  from  the  hills  of  the  Moabites  over  that  inheritance 
of  his  race  upon  which  he  was  never  to  enter,        ' 

It  yet  wanted  half  an  hour  to  noon,  and  Mount  Washing- 
ton towered  full  before  them  as  they  came  out  on  the  top  of 
Franklin,  by  the  little  Lake  of  the  Clouds  which  lay  so  saucily 
smiling  to  the  sun  and  coquetting  with  the  mists.  The  peak, 
a  huge  mass  of  broken  and  naked  stone,  half  a  mile  up  on 
everi'side  and  so  sheer  in  pitch  that  foot-hold  seemed  hopeless, 
would  have  looked  totally  discouraging  but  for  the  white  line 
of  path  which,  winding  around  it  oo  the  north-west,  showed 
that  it  must  before  have  been  achieved. 

Up — up — over  broken  and  slipping  stones  of  every  size  and 
description,  from  the  dimensions  of  a  brick-bat  to  those  of  a 
dining-table — stones  gray  and  mossed,  without  one  spoonful 
of  earth  to  prove  that  the  riders  had  not  surmounted  the  whole 
habitable  globe  and  lost  themselves  in  some  unnatural  wil- 
derness of  rock  !  And  feeling  joined  with  sight  to  enhance 
the  desolate  fancy,  for  though  so  nearly  high  noon  the  wind 
blew  at  that  dizzy  height  with  the  violence  of  a  gale,  and  the 
Guernsey  wrappers  and  the  clumsy  gloves  had  long  before 
proved  that  the  rough  and  Iromely  m:iy  be  more  useful  than 
the  beautiful. 

Two  or  three  hundred  yards  from  the  Tip-Top  House,  the 
rough  stone  walls  of  which  were  glooming  above — the  party 
were  dismounted,  the  horses  picketed  by  the  guides,  and  over 
the  broken  stones  and  yawning  fissures  the  dismounted  riders 
struggled  up.  strong  arms  aiding  weaker  limbs,  and  much 
care  necessary  to  prevent  heedless  steps  that  might  have 
caused  injuries  slow  of  recovery.  Up — up,  over  the  little 
but  difficult  remaining  distance — till  all  stood  by  the  High 
Altar  on  the  top  of  ^Mount  Washington. 

Above  the  clouds,  swales  of  which  they  saw  sweeping  by, 
half  way  down  the  mountain — above  the  earth,  its  cares  and 
its  sorrows,  it  seemed  to  them  for  the  moment  that  they  stood  ; 


THE      COWARD.  347 

and  only  those  who  have  made  such  a  pilgrimage  can  realize 
the  glory  of  that  hour.  The  mountains  of  Vermont  North- 
westward, those  of  Canada  North-eastward,  those  of  Massa- 
chusetts to  the  South  and  the  Franconia  range  full  to  the 
West ;  lakes  lying  like  splashes  of  molten  silver  at  their  feet 
and  rivers  fluttering  like  blue  silken  ribbons  far  away ;  towns 
nestled  in  the  gorges  and  hamlds  glimmering  up  from  the 
depths  of  the  ravines  ;  long  miles  of  valleys  filled  with  sunlight, 
as  if  the  very  god  of  day  had  stooped  down  and  left  them 
full  of  the  warmth  of  his  loving  kiss ;  peak  upon  peak  rising 
behind  and  beyond  each  other,  and  each  tinted  with  some  new 
and  richer  hue,  from  gold  to  purple  and  from  sunny  green  to 
dark  and  sombre  brown  ;  beyond  all,  and  on  the  extreme 
verge  of  the  sight-line  to  the  East,  one  long  low  glint  of  light 
that  told  of  the  far  Atlantic  breaking  in  shimmering  waves  on 
the  rocky  coast  of  Maine  ;  the  world  so  far  beneath  as  to  be 
a  myth  and  an  unreality,  distance  annihilated, and  the  clear, 
pure  air  drank  in  by  the  grateful  lungs  appearing  to  be  a 
foretaste  of  that  some  day  to  be  breathed  on  the  summit  of 
the  Eternal  Hills, — these  were  the  sights  and  these  the  sensa- 
tions amid  which  the  dark  cheek  of  Horace  Townsend  seemed 
touched  with  a  light  that  did  not  beam  upon  it  in  the  valleys 
below,  with  his  eyes  grown  humid  and  utterance  choked  by 
intense  feeling ;  while  all  the  heart  of  glorious  womanhood 
in  Clara  Yanderlyn  fluttered  up  in  the  truest  worship  of  that 
God  who  had  formed  the  earth  so  beautiful ;  and  even  Hal- 
stead  Rowan  once  more  forgot  pride,  poverty,  insult,  and  the 
physical  exuberance  which  made  either  endurable,  to  fold  his 
Btrong  arms  in  silence,  lift  the  innate  reverence  of  his  thoughts 
to  the  Eternal  and  the  Inevitable,  and  vow  to  submit  with 
childlike  faith  to  all  of  triumph  or  humiliation  that  might  be 
ordained  in  the  future. 


348  THE      COWARD. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Horace  Townsend  with  a  Lady  in  Charge — An  adven- 
ture OVER  the  "  Gulf  of  Mexico'' — Clara  Vanderlyn 
in  deadly  peril — A  Moment  of  Horror — Halstead 
kowan  and  a  display  of  the  comanche  riding — 
Townsend's  eclipse — The  return  to  the  Crawford — 
Margaret  Hayley  again,  and  a  Conversation  overheard. 

It  was  perhaps  two  o'clock  before  the  meeting-s  and  part- 
ings were  over  between  the  large  party  whom  we  have  seen 
ascending  from  the  Crawford,  and  the  yet  greater  number 
who  had  come  up  from  the  Glen  House  by  the  belittling 
novelty  of  the  mountain,  the  "  carriage  road," — before  the 
dinner  at  the  Tip-Top  House  was  discussed,  hearty  and  plen- 
tiful enough,  if  not  remarkably  varied, — before  the  guides  of 
the  cavalcade  had  don€  "chaffing"  the  carriage  drivers  from 
the  Glen,  whom  they  seemed  to  regard  very  much  as  "old 
salts"  do  "  fresh-water  sailors," — before  every  member  of  the 
party  had  viewed  the  magnificent  scenery  from  every  con- 
ceivable point,  drank  their  fill  of  a  beauty  that  might  not  be 
duplicated  for  years  or  excelled  in  a  lifetime,  and  filled  pockets 
and  reticules  equally  full  of  all  the  maps  and  books  that 
could  be  bought  and  all  the  geok)gical  specimens  that  could 
be  picked  up,  as  memorials  of  the  visit.  By  that  hour  the 
warning  of  the  guides  was  heard,  reminding  all  that  there 
was  no  more  time  remaining  than  would  suffice  to  carry  them- 
selves and  their  tired  horses  back  to  the  Crawford  by  night- 
fall. At  once,  then,  the  descent  began — supposed,  in  ad- 
vance, to  be  so  uneventful  and  merely  a  pleasant  diminished 
repetition  of  the  experiences  of  the  ascent. 

As  they  climbed  down  the  broken  rocks  of  the  peak  to  their 
patiently-waiting  horses  (they  would  probably  have  waited 
patiently  until  they  dropped  with  hunger,  if  by  that  means 
the  rider  and  his  saddle  could  have  been  avoided  ;   for  your 


T  II  E      C  O  W  A  R  D.  849 

mountain  horse  does  vol  find  unalloyed  pleasure  in  his  occu- 
pation !)— when  near  the  "  corral,"  as  it  maybe  called,  Frank 
Yanderlyn  left  his  sister  for  a  moment  and  stepped  over  to 
Horace  Townsend,  who  was  descending  alone,  Halstead  Rowan 
(as  usual)  at  some  distance  ahead  and  already  preparing  to 
mount  and  away. 

"  Would  you  have  any  objections,  sir,"  the  young  mun 
asked,  "as  I  believe  that  you  have  no  lady  in  charge,  to  ride 
in  company  with  my  sister  on  the  w^ay  down  ?" 

"Certainly  not!"  replied  Townsend,  though  a  little  sur- 
prised at  the  salutation  and  request  from  one  of  the  haughty 
Tanderlyns  to  whom  he  had  not  even  been  introduced.  "  I 
shall  be  proud  of  the  charge,  if  your  sister  and  yourself 
foci  like  placing  so  much  confidence  in  an  entire  stranger." 

"  Oh,  ice  know  a  gentleman  when  we  see  him  !"  replied  the. 
young  man,  not  a  little  arrogantly,  as  it  appeared  to  the 
lawyer,  and  with  a  sinister  glance  at  the  Illinoisan  w^hich  in- 
dicated that  it  would  have  been  some  time  before  he  was  en- 
trusted with  the  same  responsibility. 

"  I  am  flattered  !"  said  Townsend,  wnth  the  bow  which  the 
speech  demanded  and  yet  did  not  deserve.  "  Do  you  remain 
on  the  top  yourself?" 

"No,"  answered  the  young  man.  "But  the  fact  is  that 
my  horse  kicks.  He  kicked  my  sister's  pony  twice  in  coming 
up ;  and  I  am  afraid  of  some  trouble  in  going  down,  if  she 
rides  behind  me.  It  will  be  better  for  me  to  drop  into  the 
rear  of  all,  where  the  ill-tempered  devil  cannot  do  injury  to 
any  one." 

A  few  w^ords  of  quasi-introduction  and  explanation  between 
Yanderlyn,  Clara  and  the  lawyer  followed  ;  and  Horace  Towm- 
send,  w^ho  had  come  up  the  mountain  without  any  lady  and 
only  in  the  casual  companionship  of  a  man  who  continually 
rode  away  and  left  him  alone,  found  himself  ready  to  go  down 
it  with  the  fairest  member  of  the  company  in  charge  !  Had 
nothing  else  intervened  since  the  ride  up  from  Littleton  to 
the  Profile  and  that  long,  steady  glance  of  admiration  which 


350  THE      COWARD. 

had  then  been  bestowed  upon  the  sweet  face  and  auburn 
hair, — what  a  dangerous  proximity  this  might  have  proved  I 
Bat  the  human  heart,  expansive  as  it  may  be,  has  not  quite 
the  capacity  of  a  stage-coach  or  a  passenger-car;  and  to 
prevent  falling  in  desperate  love  with  one  fascinating  woman 
thrown  in  one's  way,  there  is  perhaps  no  guard  so  ])otent  as 
being  in  real  or  fancied  desperate  love  with  another  ! 

Halstead  Rowan  and  the  lady  whom  Townsend  had  reason 
to  believe  the  object  of  his  hope  and  his  despair,  had  not  been 
flung  together  and  apart  from  others,  for  one  moment  during 
the  day — Mr.  Frank  Yanderlyn  had  taken  especially  good 
care  in  that  respect ;  though  the  lawyer  had  little  cause  to 
doubt  that  if  both  could  have  had  their  choice  of  companion- 
ship, they  would  have  stood  side  by  side  and  without  others 
too  near,  by  the  High  Altar  which  crowned  the  summit  of 
the  mountain,  and  spoken  words  difficult  to  unsay  again 
during  the  lifetime  of  either.  But  if  he  had  not  been  alone 
with  Clara  Yanderlyn,  there  is  equally  little  doubt  that  he 
had  looked  at  her  much  oftener  than  at  the  most  admired 
point  of  scenery  on  the  route.  And  as  Frank  Yanderlyn 
strolled  away  to  his  horse,  and  Townsend,  with  the  lady  ob- 
viously under  his  charge,  was  preparing  to  mount,  he  saw 
Ftowau,  with  one  foot  in  the  stirrnp  and  the  other  on  the 
ground,  looking  over  at  him  and  his  companion,  with  the  most 
comical  expression  of  wonder  on  his  face  that  could  well  have 
been  compressed  into  the  same  extent  of  physiognoni}". 
Tlie  heart  of  the  new  knight-errant,  which  must  have  been 
a  soft  one  or  he  would  never  have  labored  under  that  weak- 
ness, smote  him  at  the  thought  of  his  apparent  desertion  ;  and 
with  a  word  of  apology  he  stepped  away  from  the  lady  and 
approached  the  dismounted  amateur  Comanche. 

''  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  are  going  to "  said 

the  latter,  and  he  nodded  his  head  comicalh^  and  yet  a  little 
pitifully  towards  Clara  Yanderlyn. 

"  Ride  down  with  Miss  Yanderlyn  ?  Yes  !"  answered  the 
lawyer. 


THE      CO  W  A  11  J)  .  851 

♦'And  who  the  deuce  asked  you  to  do  it,  I  should  like  to 
know  ?" 

"Her  brother." 

"  Phew-w-w  !"  A  prolonged  whistle,  very  characteristic 
and  sii^nificant. 

Towusend,  in  a  word,  explained  tiie  affair. 

"All  right !"  said  the  Illinoisan.  "  But,  look  here,  old  fel- 
low !  You  haven't  arranged  this  affair  yourself,  eh  ?  Xo 
meetings  on  a  single  track,  you  know  !" 

"  Xot  a  bit  of  it !"  laughed  Townsend  at  the  professional 
illustration.  "  Confidence  for  confidence  !  Have  you  not 
seen  more  closely  than  thatV 

"  Yes,  I  thought  I  had!"  answered  llowan.  "  Well,  all 
right !  Go  ahead  !  But  by  Jupiter,  if  you  do  not  take  the 
best  care  of  that  girl,  and  she  gets  into  any  kind  of  a  scrape 
by  riding  with  a  man  who  canH  ride,  there  will  be  somebody 
challenged  to  something  else  than  ten-pins  !" 

Townsend  laughed  and  turned  away.  The  time  had  been, 
he  thought,  when  incapacity  to  ride  would  scarcely  have  been 
set  down  as  among  his  short-comings  But  every  thing,  even 
equestrianism,  was  to  be  reckoned  by  comparison  ! 

A  moment  after,  all  the  party  were  in  the  saddle  ;  and  then 
commenced  a  descent  still  more  laborious  than  the  ascent,  at 
least  to  the  tired  horses  that  groaned  almost  humanly  as  they 
slid  down  the  sudden  declivities,  and  to  the  more  timid  of  the 
riders.  Horace  Townsend  rode  immediately  before  Miss 
Yanderlyn,  a  little  forward  of  the  centre  of  the  Indian  file 
(the  only  possible  mode  of  riding  in  those  narrow  bridle- 
paths)— Rowan  half-a-dozen  further  behind,  then  two  or 
three  others,  and  Frank  Yanderlyn,  with  his  dangerous  bay, 
bringing  up  the  rear. 

The  lawyer  found  his  fair  companion  all  that  her  face  had 
indicated,  in  the  desultory  conversation  which  sprung  up  be- 
tween them  as  they  made  their  way  downward  from  the  sum- 
mit, descending  the  peak  of  the  monarch  and  riding  back  over 
the  broad  top  of  Monroe  towards  Franklin.     Clara  Yander- 


ijr)2  THE      C  U  W  A  K  1) . 

lyn  conversed  geniall}'  and  easily,  and  liad  evidently  (in 
spite  of  some  restrictions  already  suggested,)  enjoyed  the 
da}^  with  the  full  warmth  of  au  ardent  nature.  She  seemed 
an  excellent  horsewoman,  easy  and  self-possessed  in  the  sad- 
dle, and  Townsend  observed  that  she  found  leisure  from  the 
care  of  picking  her  way,  to  look  back  several  times  over  her 
shoulder.  For  a  long  time  he  may  have  been  undecided 
whether  her  regard  was  directed  at  her  brother,  at  the  ex- 
treme end  of  iiic  line,  or  at  some  one  in  the  middle  distance. 
The  one  glance  of  anxiet}"  would  have  been  very  natural :  the 
other,  compounded  of  interest  only,  may  have  been  likewise 
natural  enough — who  can  say  ? 

Thc}^  were  crossing  Monroe  to  Franklin,  over  the  narrow 
back-bone  of  land  that  has  been  mentioned  in  the  ascent,  and 
at  the  very  point  where  Oakes'  Gulf,  now  on  the  left,  and  the 
scarceh'  less  terrible  Gulf  of  Mexico  on  the  right,  narrowed 
the  whole  causeway  to  not  much  more  than  a  dozen  of  feet, — 
when  Townsend  heard  a  sudden  and  sharp  cry  behind  him. 
At  that  point  the  descent  of  the  path  was  very  precipitous,  and 
over  stones  so  rugged  that  the  horses  kept  their  feet  with  great 
difficulty ;  and  in  his  anxiety  to  insure  safe  footing  he  had 
for  the  moment  lost  sight  of  his  fair  companion — a  poor 
recommendation  of  his  ability  as  an  escort,  perhaps,  but  not 
less  true  than  reprehensible  !  At  the  cry  he  turned  instantly, 
though  he  could  not  so  suddenly  check  the  course  of  his  horse 
down  the  path  without  danger  of  throwing  him  from  his  feet ; 
and  as  he  looked  around,  through  the  olive  brown  of  his  cheek 
a  deadly  whiteness  crept  to  the  skin,  and  his  blood  stood  still 
as  it  had  probably  never  before  done  since  the  tide  of  life  first 
surged  through  his  veins. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  many  men  to  look  upon  a  horror  ac- 
complished or  so  nearly  accomplished  that  any  reversal  of  the 
decree  of  fate  seemed  to  be  beyond  hope.  Such  is  the  gaze 
upon  the  strewn  dead  of  the  battle-field,  before  the  life  has 
quite  gone  out  from  a  few  who  are  already  worse  than  dead, 
and  w^hen  the  groans  and  the  cries  for  "  water  !"  to  cool  the  lipa 


T  H  K      CO  W  A  H  D.    ,  ;-,jj3 

parched  in  the  last  fever,  have  not  yet  entirely  ceased.  Such  is 
the  hopeless  glance  at  the  windrow  of  dead  strewing  the  shore 
when  a  ship  is  going  to  pieces  in  the  surf,  in  plain  sight  and 
yet  beyond  the  aid  of  human  hands,  and  when  every  moment 
is  adding  another  to  the  dr,owncd  and  ghastly  subjects  for  the 
rough-coated  Coroner.  Such  is  the  stony  regard  at  the  crushed 
victims  of  a  railroad  catastrophe,  or  the  charred  and  blackened 
remains  of  those  who  were  but  a  little  while  ago  living  pas- 
sengers on  the  steamboat  that  is  just  burning  at  the  water's 
edge.  Such,  even,  is  the  shuddering  glance  at  the  bravo  and 
unconscious  firemen  who  stand  beneath  a  heavy  wall,  when 
that  wall  is  surging  forward  and  coming  down  in  a  crushing 
mass  upon  their  very  heads,  with  no  power  except  a  miracle 
of  Omnipotence  to  prevent  their  being  flattened  into  mere 
pan-cakes  of  flesh,  and  blood,  and  bone.  All  these,  and  a 
thousand  others,  are  horrors  accomplished  or  beyond  hope  of 
being  averted  ;  and  they  are  enough  to  sicken  the  heart  and 
brain  of  humanity  brought  into  sudden  familiarity  with  them. 
But  perhaps  they  are  not  the  worst — perhaps  that  yet  unac- 
complished but  probable  horror  is  still  more  terrible,  because 
uncertainty  blends  with  it  and  there  is  yet  enough  of  hope  to 
leaven  despair.  The  life  not  yet  fully  forfeited,  but  going — 
going  ;  the  form  not  yet  crushed  out  of  the  human  semblance, 
but  to  be  so  in  a  moment  unless  that  one  chance  intervenes ; 
the  face — especially  if  the  face  be  that  of  woman,  a  thousand 
times  more  beautiful  in  the  relief  of  that  hideous  mask  of 
death  which  the  gazer  sees  glooming  behind  it, — this  is  per- 
haps the  hardest  thing  of  all  to  see  and  not  go  mad. 

None  of  these  conditions  may  have  been  quite  fulfilled  in 
the  glance  cast  backward  by  Horace  Townsend  at  that  mo- 
ment ;  but  let  us  see  how  far  the  situation  varied  from  the 
most  terrible  of  requirements. 

Going  over  that  back-bone  in  the  morning,  the  lawyer,  who 
chanced  to  be  for  the  moment  alone,  had  swung  himself  from 
his  horse,  leaving  the  animal  standing  in  the  trough,  peered 
through  the  bushes  to  the  right,  down  into  Oakes'  Gulf,  and 


854  .THE      COWARD. 

waited  to  the  edge  of  the  ])road  stone  that  formed  the  pro- 
jection over  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  lie  had  found  that  stono 
smooth  and  rounded,  a  little  slippery  from  the  almost  per- 
petual rains  and  mists  beating  upon  it,  not  more  than  eight 
to  ten  feet  wide  from  the  path  to  the  verge,  and  with  a  per- 
ceptible slope  downwards  in  the  latter  direction.  He  had 
thought,  then,  that  it  needed  a  clear  head  and  a  sure  foot  (both 
of  which  he  possessed)  to  stand  in  that  position  or  even  to 
tread  the  stone  at  any  distance  from  the  path.  And  so  think- 
ing, he  had  swung  himself  back  into  the  saddle  and  ridden  on, 
— the  incident,  then,  not  worth  relating — now,  a  thing  of  the 
most  fearful  consequence. 

For  as  he  glanced  back,  at  that  sudden  cry,  he  saw  Clara 
Yanderlyn  sitting  her  horse  on  the  very  top  of  that  smooth 
plateau  of  stone  overlooking  the  two  thousand  feet  of 
the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  at  what  could  not  have  been  more  than 
four  or  five  feet  from  the  awful  verge,  and  certainly  on  the 
downward  slope  of  what  was  an  insecure  footing  even  for  the 
plastic  foot  of  man — much  more  for  the  clumsy  iron-shod 
hoof! 

What  could  have  induced  her  trained  pony  to  spring  out 
from  the  path  a  few  feet  behind  and  rush  into  that  perilous 
elevation,  must  ever  remain  (in  the  absence  of  an  equine  lexi- 
con) quite  as  much  of  a  mystery  as  it  seemed  at  that  moment. 
Perhaps  it  was  in  going  down  some  such  declivity  of  path  as 
that  before  him,  that  he  had  been  kicked  by  the  vicious  bay 
of  Frank  Yanderlyn  while  making  the  ascent,  and  that  he 
had  concluded  to  wait  on  this  convenient  shelf  until  all  the 
rest  had  gone  by,  before  he  consented  to  make  the  passage 
with  his  fair  burthen.  Perhaps  the  movement  was  merely 
one  of  those  unaccountable  freaks  of  sullen  madness  in  which 
horses  as  well  as  men  sometimes  have  the  habit  of  indulging. 
At  all  events,  such  was  the  situation  ;  and  the  recollection  of 
it,  as  thus  recalled  to  those  who  were  present,  will  be  quite 
enough,  as  we  are  well  aware,  to  set  the  heart  beating  most 
painfully.     What,  then,  must  have  been  the  feeling  of  all  who 


THE      COWARD.  355 

saw,  and  especially  of  that  man  who  had  promised  to  protect 
the  fair  being  thus  placed  in  peril !  What  thoughts  of  the 
playful  threat  of  Halstead  Rowan  must  have  rushed  through 
his  brain — that  "  if  she  got  into  any  kind  of  a  scrape  by  rid- 
ing with  a  man  who  couldnH  ride,"  such  and  such  fatal  results 
would  follow  1  Not  a  duel  with  the  Illinoisan — oh,  no  ! — but 
a  black,  terrible,  life-long  duel  with  his  own  self-reproaches 
and  remorse  for  heedlessness  and  want  of  judgment — this 
would  be  the  doom  more  fearful  than  a  thousand  personal 
chastisements,  if  danger  became  destruction.  One  clumsy 
movement  of  the  horse's  feet,  one  slip  on  the  stone,  and  she 
would  as  certainly  go  over  that  dizzy  precipice  and  fall  so 
crushed  and  mangled  a  mass  into  the  gulf  below  that  her 
fragments  could  scarcely  be  distinguished  from  those  of  the 
pony  she  rode — as  certainly  as  she  had  grace  and  love  and 
beauty  crowning  her  life  and  adding  to  the  possible  horror 
of  her  death.  He  did  not  know,  then,  how  many  of  the 
cavalcade  saw  the  situation,  or  how  the  blood  of  most  who 
saw  stood  still  like  his  own,  with  dread  and  apprehension. 

The  inconceivable  rapidity  of  human  thought  has  been 
so  often  made  a  matter  of  comment,  that  words  could  but 
be  w^asted  in  illustrating  it.  It  shames  the  lightning  and 
makes  sluggard  light  itself.  All  these  thoughts  in  the  mind 
of  Horace  Townsend  scarcely  consumed  that  time  necessary 
to  draw  rein  and  turn  himself  round  in  the  saddle  in  a 
quick  attempt  to  alight,  rush  up  the  side  of  the  rock  and 
seize  her  horse  by  the  bridle  or  swing  her  from  her  seat. 
He  had  no  irresolution — no  moment  of  hesitation — he  only 
thought  and  suffered  in  that  single  instant  preceding  action. 

"  For  God's  sake  do  not  move  I  I  will  be*there  in  one  in- 
stant !"  he  said  in  a  low,  hoarse,  intense  voice  that  reached 
her  like  a  trumpet's  clang. 

"  Oh  yes — quick  !  quick  !"  he  heard  her  reply,  in  a  convul- 
sive, frightened  voice.  "  Oh,  quick  ! — you  don't  know  where 
I  am  !" 

Poor  girl  ! — he  did  know  where  she  was,  too  well. 


356  THE      COWARD. 

She  was  braver  than  most  women,  or  she  would  probaV)ly 
have  jerked  the  bridle  or  frightened  her  horse  by  frantic  cries, 
and  sent  him  slipping  with  herself  down  the  ravine  ;  for  the 
situation  was  a  most  fearful  one,  and  there  are  few  women 
who  could  have  braved  it  without  a  tremor.  A  man,  let  it 
be  remembered,  if  cruel  enough,  might  Lave  alighted  and 
left  the  horse  to  its  fate  ;  but  to  a  w^oman,  encumbered  by  her 
long  clothes,  the  attempt  must  have  been  almost  certain  des- 
truction for  both. 

Perhaps  not  sixty  seconds  had  elapsed  after  the  first  cry, 
"vvhen  the  lawyer  succeeded  in  checking  his  horse  without 
throwing  him  headlong,  swung  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup, 
and  attempted  to  spring  to  the  ground.  But  just  then  there 
was  a  sudden  rush  over  the  rock ;  a  wierd  and  unnatural 
sweeping  by,  something  like  that  of  the  Demon  Hunt  in 
"  Der  Freischutz ;"  a  cry  of  terror  and  fright  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  whole  line  in  the  rear  and  fill  the  air  with 
ghastly  sound  ;  a  closing  of  the  eyes  on  the  part  of  the  in- 
capable guardian,  in  the  full  belief  that  the  noises  he  heard 
were  those  of  the  accomplishment  of  the  great  horror ;  then 
sounds  nearer  him,  and  a  jar  that  almost  prostrated  himself 
and  the  horse  against  which  he  yet  leaned ;  then  a  wild  cry 
of  exultation  and  delight  which  seemed — God  help  his  senses  ! 
— was  he  going  mad  ? — to  be  mingled  with  the  clapping  of 
bands  like  that  which  follows  a  moment  of  intense  interest  at 
the  theatre  ! 

Then  silence,  and  the  lawyer  opened  his  eyes  as  suddenly 
as  be  had  closed  them.  And  what  did  he  see  ?  On  the 
rock,  nothing ;  in  the  path,  ahead  of  him,  Clara  Tanderlyn 
still  sitting  her  horse,  though  in  a  half  fainting  state,  and 
Halstead  Rowan,  also  on  horseback,  ahead  of  her,  and  w^th 
his  hand  holding  her  bridle  ! 

Of  course  Horace  Townsend,  at  that  moment  of  doubt 
whether  he  stood  upon  his  head  or  his  heels — whether  he 
had  gone  stark  mad  or  retained  a  fair  measure  of  sanity — 
whether  the  enrth  vet  revolved  in  its  usual  orbit  or  had  <?one 


THE      COWARD.  357 

wandering  off  into  cometary  space,  beyond  all  physical  laws 
— of  course  at  that  moment  he  could  not  know  precisely 
what  had  occurred  to  produce  that  sudden  and  singular 
change ;  and  he  could  only  learn,  the  moment  after,  from 
those  who  had  been  on  the  higher  ground  behind  at  the 
moment  of  the  peril.  According  to  their  explanations,  at  the 
moment  when  they  all  saw  the  danger  with  a  shudder  and  a 
holding  of  the  very  breath,  Kowan  had  been  heard  to  utter 
a  single  exclamation :  "  Well,  I  swear  !"  (a  rough  phrase,  and 
one  that  he  should  by  no  means  have  used  ;  but  let  his 
Western  life  and  training  entitle  him  to  some  consideration) 
— dashed  spurs  into  the  side  of  his  horse — crowded  by  the  five 
or  six  who  preceded  him,  in  a  path  considered  impassable 
for  more  than  one  horse  at  a  time — and  then,  with  a  wild 
Indian  cry  that  he  apparently  could  not  restrain,  spurred  up 
the  side  of  the  rock,  between  Clara  Yanderlyn  and  the  verge 
of  the  precipice,  certainly  where  the  off  feet  of  his  horse 
could  not  have  been  thirty  inches  from  the  slippery  edge,  and 
literally  jerked  her  horse  and  herself  off  into  the  path  by  the 
impetus  of  his  own  animal  outside  and  the  sudden  grip  which 
he  closed  upon  her  bridle  as  he  went  by,  himself  coming 
down  into  the  path  ahead,  and  neither  unseated  !  Miss 
Yanderlyn's  pony  had  struck  the  lawyer's  horse  as  he  came 
down  in  his  enforced  flying  leap  ;  and  thus  were  explained 
all  the  sights,  sounds,  and  physical  events  of  that  apparently 
supernatural  moment. 

The  scene  which  followed,  only  a  few  moments  after,  when 
the  leading  members  of  the  cavalcade  (Clara  Yanderlyn  in 
the  midst  of  it,  supported  by  Rowan,  who  managed  to  keep 
near  her) — the  scene  which  followed,  we  say,  when  they 
reached  a  little  plateau  where  the  company  had  room  to 
gather,  will  not  be  more  easily  effaced  from  the  memory  of 
those  who  were  present  than  the  terrible  danger  which  had 
just  preceded  it.  The  overstrung  nerves  of  the  poor  girl 
gave  way  at  that  point,  and  she  dropped  from  her  horse  in  a 
swoon,  just  as  Halstead  Rowan  (singular  coincidence  !)  had 


358  THE      COWARD. 

slipped  from  the  saddle  and  was  ready  to  catch  her  as  she 
fell !  What  more  natural  than  that  in  falling  and  being 
caught,  she  should  have  thrown  her  arms  round  the  stout 
neck  of  the  Illinoisan  ?  And  what  more  inevitable  than  that 
he  should  have  been  a  considerable  time  in  getting  ready  to 
lay  her  down  upon  the  horse-blankets  that  had  been  suddenly 
pulled  off  and  spread  for  her, — and  that  finally,  the  clinging 
grasp  still,  continuing,  he  should  have  dropped  himself  on  one 
corner  of  the  blanket  and  furnished  the  requisite  support  to 
her  head  and  shoulders  ? 

Frank  Yanderlyn  and  those  who  had  been  farthest  behind 
with  him  came  up  at  that  moment;  and  Horace  Townsend, 
if  no  one  else,  detected  the  sullen  frown  that  gathered  on  his 
brow  as  he  saw  his  sister  lying  in  the  arms  of  the  man  whom 
he  had  so  grossly  insulted.  But  if  he  frowned  he  said 
nothing,  very  prudently ;  for  it  is  indeed  not  sure  that  it 
would  have  been  safe,  just  then,  for  an  emperor,  there  present, 
to  speak  an  ill  word  to  the  hero  of  the  day. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  the  usual  authorial  affidavit  may  be 
taken  that  Halstead  Rowan  retained  Clara  Yanderlyn,  brother 
or  no  brother  in  the  way,  in  his  arms  until  some  one  succeeded 
in  obtaining  water  from  a  clear  deposit  of  rain  among  the 
rocks  ;  that  no  one — not  even  one  of  the  ladies — attempted 
to  dispossess  him  of  his  newly-acquired  human  territory ; 
that  when  the  water  had  been  brought,  and  she  first  gave 
token  of  the  full  return  of  consciousness,  she  did  so  by  clasp- 
ing her  arms  around  Rowan's  neck  (of  course  involuntarily) 
and  murmuring  words  that  sounded  to  Townsend  and  some 
others  near,  like  :  "You  saved  me!  How  good  and  noble 
you  are  !"  and  that  even  under  that  temptation  he  did  not 
kiss  her,  as  he  would  probably  have  sacrificed  both  arms  and 
a  leg  or  two,  but  not  his  manliness,  to  do. 

It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after,  when  Miss  Yanderlyn, 
Bufficiently  and  only  sufficiently  recovered  to  ride,  was  placed 
once  more  in  the  saddle  and  the  cavalcade  took  its  way  more 
elowly  down  the  mountains.     The  scenery,  under  the  western 


THK      COWAKD.  859 

sun,  was  even  move  lovely  than  that  of  the  morning,  the  mists 
had  all  rolled  away  from  every  point  of  the  compass,  and  there 
were  some  views  Franconia-wards  that  they  had  entirely 
missed  in  the  ascent.  But  there  was  scarcely  one  of  the  com- 
pany who  had  not  been  so  stirred  to  the  very  depths  of  human 
sympathy,  by  the  event  of  the  preceding  half-hour,  that  in- 
animate nature,  however  wondrously  beautiful,  was  half  for- 
gotten. So  quickly,  in  those  summer  meetings  and  partings, 
do  we  grow  attached  to  those  with  whom  we  are  temporarily 
■associated,  especially  amid  the  surroundings  of  the  sublime 
and  beautiful, — that  had  that  fair  girl  lost  her  life  so  strangely 
and  sadly,  not  one  of  all  who  saw  the  accident  but  would 
have  borne  in  mind  through  life,  in  addition  to  the  inevitable 
horror  of  the  recollection,  a  memory  like  that  of  losing  a  dear 
and  valued  friend.  And  yet  many  of  them  had  never  even 
spoken  to  her,  and  perhaps  only  one  in  the  whole  cavalcade 
(her  brother)  had  known  of  her  existence  one  week  before  ! 

Even  as  it  was,  there  were  not  a  few  of  that  line  of 
spectators  from  whose  eyes  the  vision  of  what  might  have 
been,  failed  to  fade  out  with  the  moment  that  witnessed  it. 
Some  of  them  dreamed,  for  nights  after,  (or  at  least  until 
another  occurrence  then  impending  dwarfed  the  recollection) 
not  only  of  seeing  the  young  girl  sitting  helpless  on  that 
perilous  rock,  but  of  beholding  her  arms  raised  to  heaven 
in  agony  and  the  feet  of  her  horse  pawing  the  air,  as  both 
disappeared  from  sight  over  the  precipice.  Some  may  still 
dream  of  the  event,  in  lonely  night-hours  following  days  of 
trouble  and  anxiety. 

In  the  new  arrangements  for  descending  the  mountains, 
made  after  the  recovery  of  Clara  Vanderlyn,  Horace  Town- 
send  was  not  quite  discarded,  but  he  could  not  avoid  feel- 
ing that  very  little  dependence  was  placed  upon  his  escort. 
It  was  of  course  as  a  mere  jest,  but  to  the  sensitive  mind 
of  the  lawyer  there  seemed  to  be  a  dash  of  malicious  earnest 
at  the  bottom, — that  Rowan  took  the  first  occasion  as  he 
passed  near  him,  immediately  after  the  young  girl  had  been 


o60  'J'  HE       C  U  \V  A  R  D. 

removed  from  his  arms,  to  give  him  a  forcible  punch  in  tlie 
ribs,  with  the  accompanying  remark : 

"Bah  !  I  told  you  that  you  couldn't  ride;  but  I  had  no  idea 
that  you  could  not  do  any  better  at  taking  care  of  a  woman, 
than  that !" 

Townsend  quite  forgave  him  that  remark,  jest  or  earnest, 
for  he  saw  the  new  sparkle  in  his  eye,  remembered  how  likely 
he  was  to  have  had  his  mind  a  little  disordered  by  all  that 
sweet  wealth  of  auburn  hair  lying  for  so  many  minutes  on  his 
breast,  and  formed  his  own  opinions  as  to  the  result.  If 
those  opinions  were  favorable,  well ;  if  they  were  unfavorable, 
he  was  taking  a  world  of  trouble  that  did  not  belong  to  him  ; 
for  there  is  always  a  "  sweet  little  cherub"  sitting  "  up  aloft" 
to  keep  watch  over  the  fortunes  of  such  rattle-pates  and  dare- 
devils as  Halstead  Rowan — to  supervise  their  getting  into 
scrapes  and  out  of  them  ! 

But  there  was  nothing  of  jest,  he  thought,  in  the  air  with 
which  Clara  Yanderlyn,  when  re-mounting  her  horse,  reply- 
ing to  an  earnest  expression  of  regret  that  one  moment  of  in- 
attention on  his  part  should  have  allowed  her  to  be  placed  in 
serious  peril, — very  kindly  denied  that  he  had  been  guilty  of 
any  neglect  whatever,  threw  the  whole  blame  upon  her  horse, 
thanked  him  for  the  promptness  with  which  he  was  coming 
to  her  relief  when  forestalled,  but  then  said,  looking  at  Rowan 
with  a  glance  which  came  near  setting  that  enthusiastic  eques- 
trian entirely  wild  : 

"  It  seems  that  I  am  a  very  diflBcult  person  to  take  care  of; 
and  if  you  have  no  objection  to  my  having  two  esquires,  and 
will  allow  Mr.  Rowan  to  ride  with  me  as  well  as  yourself, 
and  if  he  is  willing  to  do  so,  I  think  that  I  shall  feel"  (she  did 
not  say  *'  safer",  but)  "  a  little  more  like  keeping  up  my 
spirits." 

Frank  Yanderlyn  had  looked  somewhat  sullenly  on  and 
scarcely  said  a  word,  since  his  coming  up.  But  at  this  speech 
of  his  sister-s  he  must  have  felt  that  the  dignity  of  the  Yan- 
^derlyn  family  was  again  in  serious  peril,  for  he  put  his  mouth 


T  li  K       COW  A  KD.  3C1 

close  to  her  ear  and  spoke  some  words  that  were  heard  by  no 
other  than  herself.  They  could  not  have  been  very  satisfac- 
tory or  convincing,  for  Horace  Townscnd,  and  others  as  well, 
heard  her  say  in  reply : 

''Brother,  your  horse  is  dangerous— you  said  so  yourself; 
so  just  be  good  enough  to  ride  as  you  did  before,  and  my 
friends  here  will  take  care  of  me." 

Whereupon  the  young  man  went  back  to  his  horse,  look- 
ing a  little  discomfited  and  by  no  means  in  the  best  of  humors. 
Such  little  accidents  icill  occur,  sometimes,  to  mar  the  best- 
laid  schemes  of  careful  mothers  or  anxious  brothers,  for  pre- 
serving the  ultra-respectability  of  a  family  ;  and  wiiether  the 
origin  of  the  intervention  is  in  heaven  or  its  opposite,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  in  such  cases  but  to  look  wronged  and  un- 
happy, as  did  Frank  Yanderlyn,  or  smile  over  the  accom- 
plished mischief  and  pretend  that  the  event  is  rather  agree- 
able than  otherwise,  as  persons  of  more  experience  than  Frank 
have  often  had  occasion  to  do  at  different  periods  during  the 
current  century. 

The  result  of  all  this  was  that  Horace  Towusend  really  rode 
down  with  Clara  Yanderlyn  in  the  mere  capacity  of  an  esquire, 
while  Halstead  Rowan  assumed  the  spurs  and  the  authority 
of  the  knight.  The  latter  rode  in  advance  of  her,  as  near  her 
bridle-rein  as  the  roughness  of  the  path  would  allow ;  and  no 
one  need  to  question  the  fact  that  he  kept  his  eyes  on  the  young 
girl  quite  steadily  enough  to  secure  her  safety  !  What  diflB- 
culty  was  there  in  his  doing  so,  w^hen  he  had  already  proved 
that  he  could  ride  backward  nearly  as  well  a.?  forward  and  that 
the  footing  of  his  horse  was  the  least  thought  in  his  mind  ? 
They  seemed  to  be  conversing,  too,  a  large  proportion  of  the 
time  ;  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  Halstead  Rowan,  carried 
away  by  the  events  of  the  day,  uttered  words  that  he  might 
have  long  delayed  or  never  spoken  under  other  circumstances, 
—and  that  Clara  Yanderlyn  wore  that  sweet  flush  upon  her 
face  and  kept  that  timid  but  happy  trembling  of  the  dewy 
under-lip,  much  more  constantly  than  she  had  ever  before 


THE      COWARD. 

done  in  her  young  life.  Horace  Townsend,  who  rode  behind 
the  lady,  did  not  hear  any  of  those  peculiar  words  which 
passed  between  her  and  her  companion ;  and  had  ice  heard 
tliem  they  would  certainly  not  be  made  public  in  this  con- 
nection. 

The  lawyer,  as  has  been  said,  rode  behind  ;  and,  as  has  not 
been  said,  he  did  so  in  no  enviable  state  of  feeling.  He  had 
done  nothing — been  accused  of  nothing — in  any  manner  cal- 
culated to  degrade  him ;  but  one  casual  event  had  thrown  a 
shadow  across  his  path,  not  easily  recognized  without  some 
recollection  of  characteristics  before  developed.  The  reader 
has  had  abundant  reason  to  believe  that  this  man,  profiting 
by  some  intelligence  obtained  in  a  manner  not  open  to  the 
outer  world,  of  the  peculiar  madness  of  Margaret  Hayley 
after  that  abstraction,  courage, — had  more  or  less  firmly  de- 
termined to  win  her  through  the  exhibition  of  certain  qualities 
which  he  believed  that  he  possessed  in  a  peculiar  degree. 
One  opportunity  had  been  given  him  (that  at  the  Pool),  and 
he  had  succeeded  in  interesting  her  to  an  extent  not  a  little 
flattering  and  hopeful ;  but  envious  fate  could  not  allow  a 
week  to  pass  without  throwing  him  again  into  disadvantageous 
comparison  with  a  man  who  had  no  occasion  whatever  of 
making  any  exhibition  of  such  qualities  ! 

That  Margaret  Hayley  would  yet  remain  for  some  days 
and  perhaps  weeks  in  the  mountains,  and  that  she  would 
probably  visit  the  Crawford  before  her  departure,  he  had  at 
least  every  reason  to  believe  ;  and  he  had  quite  as  much  cause 
for  confidence  that  the  story  of  the  adventure  over  the  Gulf 
of  Mexico,  roundly  exaggerated  to  place  himself  in  a  false 
position  and  to  deify  the  Illinoisan,  would  reach  her  ears, 
whether  at  the  Profile  or  the  Crawford,  through  stage-drivers 
or  migratory  passengers,  within  the  next  forty-eight  hours. 
This  (for  reasons  partially  hinted  at  and  others  which  will 
develop  themselves  in  due  time)  was  precisely  that  state  of 
affairs  which  he  would  have  given  more  to  avoid  than  any 
other  that  could  have  been  named  ;  and  this  it  was  that  made 


THE      COWARD.  363 

a  dark  red  flush  of  mortification  rise  at  times  to  his  dusky- 
cheek  and  give  an  expression  any  thing  but  pleasant  to  his 
eyes,  as  he  rode  silently  behind  the  two  who  were  now  so 
indubitably  linked  as  lovers,  once  more  over  the  top  of  Pros- 
pect and  down  the  rugged  declivities  of  Clinton.  Those  who 
have  ever  been  placed  in  circumstances  approaching  to  these 
in  character,  can  best  decide  whether  the  lawyer  was  sulking 
for  nothing  or  indulging  in  gloomy  anticipations  with  quite 
sufficient  reason. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  and  the  light  had  some  time  disap- 
peared from  the  valleys  lying  in  the  shade  of  the  western 
peaks,  when  the  last  stony  trough  and  the  last  corduroy  road 
of  Mount  Clinton  was  finally  repassed,  and  the  whole  caval- 
cade, each  member  of  it  perhaps  moved  by  the  one  idea  of 
showing  that  neither  horse  nor  rider  was  wearied  out — broke 
once  more  into  a  trot  as  they  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
Crawford  through  the  trees,  dashed  merrily  out  from  the  edge 
of  the  woods,  and  came  up  in  straggling  but  picturesque  order 
to  the  door  of  the  great  caravanserai.  The  difficult  ride  of 
eighteen  miles  had  been  accomplished  ;  the  golden  day  (with 
its  one  drawback  of  momentary  peril)  was  over ;  and  more 
than  half  a  score  who  had  before  only  thought  of  the  ascent 
of  Mount  Washington  as  a  future  possibility,  suddenly  found 
that  they  could  look  back  upon  it  as  a  remembrance. 

As  they  rode  up  to  the  front  of  the  Crawford,  the  \fliole 
end  of  the  piazza  was  full  of  new-comers  and  late  sojourners, 
watching  the  return  of  those  who  had  preceded  or  followed 
them — an  idle,  listless  sort  of  gathering,  showing  more  curi- 
osity than  welcome,  such  as  the  traveller  by  rail  or  steamboat 
sees  crowding  every  platform  at  the  expected  time  of  the 
arrival  of  a  train  and  every  pier  at  the  hour  for  the  coming 
in  of  a  boat.  Cries  of:  "All  safe,  eh?"  "Glad  to  see  you 
back  again  !"  "  Hope  you  had  a  pleasant  day  !"  and  "  Well, 
how  did  you  like  Mount  Washington  ?"  broke  from  twenty 
lips  in  a  moment,  mingled  with  replies  and  non-replies  that 
came  simultaneously:  "  Oh,  you  ought  to  have  gone  up  with 


864  THE      COWARD. 

US  !"  "  Mj  borse  carried  me  like  a  bird  !"  (the  last  remark, 
presumably,  froui  a  fat  man  of  two  hundred  and  sixty,  whom 
not  even  an  elephant  could  have  borne  in  that  suggestively 
buoyant  manner),  "Never  was  such  a  da}"  for  going  up,  in 
the  world  !"  "  Safe,  eh  ?  Yes,  why  not  ?"  (that  from  a  person, 
no  doubt,  w^ho  bad  really  been  prodigiously  scared  at  some 
period  of  the  ride),  and  the  one  inevitable  pendant :  "  Oh, 
you  have  no  idea  what  an  adventure  we  have  had  ! — one  of 
the  ladies  came  near  being  killed — tell  you  all  about  it  by- 
and-bye,"  etc.,  etc. 

Horace  Townsend,  who  had  been  riding  the  last  mile  very 
much  like  a  man  in  a  dream  and  really  with  the  formal  charge 
of  Clara  Yanderlyn  entirely  abandoned  to  her  chosen  protec- 
tor— Horace  Townsend  heard  all  this,  as  if  he  heard  through 
miles  of  distance  or  at  a  long  period  of  time  after  the  utter- 
ance. For  his  eyes  were  busy  and  they  absorbed  all  his 
sensations.  He  had  recognized,  at  the  first  moment  of  riding 
up,  among  the  crowd  of  persons  on  the  piazza,  the  dark,  proud 
eyes  and  beautiful  face  and  stately  form  of  Margaret  Hayley, 
leaning  on  the  arm  of  that  man  whom  he  had  not  by  any 
means  learned  to  love  since  his  advent  in  the  mountains — • 
Captain  Hector  Coles,  Y.  A.  D.  C.  They  had  waited  clear 
weather  before  starting  frotn  the  Profile,  and  come  through 
that  day  while  his  party  had  been  absent  up  the  mountains : 
be  realized  all  at  a  thought,  and  realized  that  whatever  he 
was  himself  to  endure  of  trial  lay  much  nearer  than  he  had 
before  believed.  Disguised  and  indeed  disfigured  as  the  law- 
yer was,  in  common  with  all  the  other  members  of  the  caval- 
cade, to  such  a  degree  that  only  observation  and  study  could 
penetrate  the  masquerade, — it  was  not  at  all  strange  that  the 
lady  failed  to  meet  his  eye  with  an  answering  glance  of  recog- 
nition ;  and  he  felt  rather  grateful  than  the  reverse,  for  the 
moment,  that  his  disguise  was  so  efiectual.  "While  Clara 
Yanderlyn,  a  third  time  within  one  week  the  passive  heroine 
of  the  mountains,  was  being  lifted  from  her  saddle  by  half  a 
dozen  officious  hands,  and  while  the  rest  of  the  party  were 


THE      C  U  W  A  K  I).  365 

gabbling  as  Ibcy  aligbtctl, — be  slipped  quietly  from  bis  borse 
bebind  one  corner  of  tbe  piazza,  tbrew  bis  rein  to  one  of  tbe 
stable-boys,  and  disappeared  tbrougb  tbe  ball,  up-stairs  to  bis 
cbamber. 

He  did  not  again  make  bis  appearance  until  supper  was  on 
tbe  tables  and  tbe  battle  of  knives-and-forks  going  on  with 
that  vigor  born  of  mountain  air.  Most  of  tbe  visitors  at  tbe 
bouse,  tbe  voyagers  of  tbe  day  included,  were  already  seated  ; 
and  among  tbem  was  Clara  Yanderlyn,  apparently  no  wbit 
the  worse  for  ber  day's  adventure,  her  brother  at  one  and  ber 
motber  at  tbe  other  side.  A  little  further  down  tbe  table,  on  tbe 
same  side,  sat  Ilalstead  Kowan,  occupying  tbe  same  seat  of 
tbe  evening  before.  He  bad  evidently  dropped  back  from  bis 
familiar  standing  witb  tbe  lady,  tbe  moment  they  came  within 
the  atmosphere  of  Mrs,  Yanderlyn  and  tbe  great  republic  of 
voices  at  tbe  Crawford  ;  but  quite  as  evidently  be  bad  not  yet 
fallen  away  from  bis  last-won  position  as  a  hero,  for  bis  face 
was  continually  flushing,  as  be  ate,  witb  tbe  modesty  of  a. 
girl's,  when  the  whispers  and  nods  and  pointings  of  interest 
and  admiration  were  made  so  plain  that  tbey  reacbed  bis  eye 
and  ear.  The  adventure  of  tbe  day  was  undeniably  tbe  topic 
of  tbe  evening,  and  Halstead  Rowan  was  tbe  hero  ;  and  it 
may  be  imagined  bow  much  tbis  knowledge  and  tbe  inevita- 
ble corollary  that  some  one  else  was  not  the  bero,  added  to 
tbe  comfort  of  tbe  late-comer  at  table. 

Margaret  Hayley,  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  and  Captain  Hector 
Coles  were  also  at  supper,  but  tbey  bad  nearly  finished  when 
Townsend  took  bis  seat.  They  rose  tbe  moment  after,  and 
as  tbey  did  so  tbe  lawyer,  now  once  more  so  arrayed  as  to 
display  his  own  proper  person,  caught  tbe  eye  of  Margaret. 
She  nodded  and  smiled,  yes,  smiled  ! — in  answer  to  bis  bow 
across  tbe  table  ;  and  he  could  almost  have  taken  his  profes- 
sional oath  that  a  quick  sparkle  came  to  her  eye  when  she 
saw  him,  then  died  away  as  quickly  as  if  compelled  back  by  a 
strong  will.  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  did  not  seem  to  see  him  at 
all ;  but  Captain  Coles  signified  that  he  did  so,  by  a  glanco 


366  THE      COWARD. 

of  such  new-born  contempt  blended  with  old  hatred,  as  he 
should  never  have  wasted  upon  any  one  except  a  national 
enemy  whom  he  had  just  defeated  in  arms.  The  party  swept 
down  the  room,  and  very  soon  after  the  others  whom  we  have 
noted  also  rose  and  disappeared,  leaving  Horace  Townsend 
discussing  his  supper  with  what  appetite  he  might.  It  may 
be  consoling  to  some  curious  persons  to  know  that  that  appe- 
tite was  by  no  means  contemptible,  and  that  he  did  not 
falter  in  physique  if  restless  unquiet  and  anxiety  made  a  prey 
of  his  mind. 

Salf  an  hour  after,  he  was  smoking  his  cigar  on  the 
piazza,  none  whom  he  knew  within  view ;  and  he  strolled 
out  into  the  edge  of  the  wood  to  the  right  of  the  house,  to 
enjoy  (if  enjoyment  it  could  be  called)  solitude,  gloom  and 
darkness.  The  path  he  followed  led  him  eventually  round 
in  a  circle  and  brought  him  back  to  the  edge  again,  only  a 
few  yards  from  the  house  and  near  the  spot  where  the  two 
huge  bears  were  moving  about,  dense  black  spots  in  the  twi- 
light. There  was  a  rude  bench  beneath  the  trees  not  fai 
from  what  might  have  been  called  their  "  orbit"  (especially  ag 
they  are  sometimes  "  stars"  at  the  menageries)  ;  and  on  that 
bench  he  discovered  three  figures.  He  was  but  a  little  dis- 
tance away  when  he  first  saw  them  and  that  they  were  two 
ladies  and  a  gentleman  ;  and  he  was  still  nearer  before  ho 
became  aware  that  they  were  the  Hayleys,  mother  and 
daughter,  with  their  inevitable  attendant  and  cavalier. 

They  were  in  conversation,  not  toning  it  so  low  as  if  they 
had  any  particular  anxiety  against  its  being  overheard  ;  and 
yet  Horace  Townsend,  much  as  he  might  have  wished  to 
know  every  word  that  came  from  the  lips  of  at  least  one  of 
the  three,  might  have  passed  on  without  listening  intention- 
ally to  one  utterance,  if  he  had  not  chanced  to  hear  that  they 
were  discussing  the  event  of  the  day.  That^  fact  literally 
chained  him  to  the  root  of  the  tree  near  which  he  was  stand- 
ing— he  was  so  anxious  to  know  what  version  of  the  affair 
had  already  been  circulated  and  given  credence  among  the 


THE      COWARD.  367 

three  or  four  hundred  visitors  at  the  Crawford,  and  especially 
among  the  particular  three  of  that  number. 

It  has  before  been  said,  we  fancy,  by  that  widely-known 
wTiter,  "Anonymous,"  that  listeners  do  not  always  hear  any 
notable  good  of  themselves.  And  Horace  Townsend,  in  stop- 
ping to  play  the  eaves-dropper,  at  least  partially  illustrated  the 
saying.  He  heard  a  version  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  affair, 
from  the  lips  of  Captain  Coles,  calculated  to  make  him,  if  he 
had  any  sensitiveness  of  nature  and  a  spark  of  the  fighting 
propensity,  kill  himself  or  the  narrator. 

"  I  think  I  have  heard  enough  of  it,"  Margaret  Hayley  was 
saying,  as  Townsend  came  within  hearing.  "  I  really  do  not 
know  that  Miss  Yanderlyn,  though  a  pleasant  girl  enough,  is 
of  so  much  consequence  that  the  whole  house  should  go  crazy 
over  one  of  her  little  mishaps  in  riding." 

''A  little  mishap  !"  echoed  the  Captain.  "  Phew  ! — if  I 
am  not  very  much  mistaken  it  was  a  hig  mishap — ^just  a 
hair's-breadth  between  saving  her  life  and  losing  it !" 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley.  "Why 
dear  me,  Captain  Coles  ! — that  is  very  interesting,  especially 
if  her  being  saved  was  providential.  Did  you  hear  the  par- 
ticulars, then?" 

"  Shall  we  go  in,  mother  ?"  asked  Margaret. 

"  No,  my  dear,  not  yet !"  answered  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley. 
"  Captain  Coles  is  just  going  to  tell  us  what  really  happened 
to  the  young  lady  who  was  so  mercifully  spared.  Go  on, 
Captain,  please." 

"Well,  the  story  is  a  short  one,  though  thrilling  enough, 
egad  I — to  put  into  a  romance  !"  said  the  Captain.  "Young 
Waldron,  that  we  met  at  the  Profile,  was  one  of  the  party,  and 
he  told  me  about  it  while  you  were  dressing  for  supper.  It 
appears  that  Miss  Yanderlyn  went  up  with  her  brother,  and 
that  something  happened  to  his  horse — it  got  lamed,  or  some- 
thing,— so  that  he  could  not  ride  down  with  her.  He  was 
fool  enough,  then,  to  put  her  under  the  charge  of  that  friend 
of  yours,  Margaret — " 


368  THE      COWARD. 

"  Captain  Coles,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  confine  your- 
self to  your  story,  if  you  must  tell  it,  and  leave  my  name  out 
of  the  question  ?"  was  the  interruption  of  the  youns:  lady — 
no  unpleasant  one  to  the  listener,— at  that  point  of  the  narra- 
tion. 

"  Humph  !  I  do  not  see  that  you  need  be  so  sensitive 
about  it !"  sneered  back  the  Captain.  "  Well,  then,  not  that 
friend  of  yours,  but  that  man,  who  has  not  less  than  a  dozen 
names  and  who  lives  in  Philadelphia  and  Cincinnati  and 
several  other  cities." 

"Yes,  the  man  whose  handkerchief  you  took  out  of  his 
pocket  the  other  night,  in  the  ten-pin  alloy,  to  see  whether  his 
initials  were  correct !"  again  interrupted  ^NFargaret  in  a  tone 
of  voice  not  less  decided  than  that  of  the  other  was  taunting 
and  arrogant. 

It  was  much  too  dark,  under  the  shade  of  the  trees,  at  that 
moment,  to  see  the  face  of  Captain  Hector  Coles,  or  he  might 
have  been  discovered,  even  under  his  moustache,  biting  his 
lip  so  sharply  that  the  blood  came.  An  eye  keen  enough  to 
have  seen  this,  too,  would  have  been  able  to  see  that  Horace 
Townsend  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf,  that  great  beads  of 
sweat  started  out  on  his  brown  forehead,  while  he  muttered  a 
fierce  word  of  anger  and  indignation  that  died  away  on  the 
night  air  without  reaching  any  human  ear. 

Captain  Hector  Coles  choked  an  instant  and  then  went  on  : 

"  He  entrusted  her  to  the  care  of  that  adventurer,  who 
managed,  before  they  had  ridden  a  mile,  to  lose  his  way  and 
his  presence  of  mind  at  tlie  same  time — got  her  and  her  pony 
on  the  top  of  a  slippery  rock  where  there  were  ten  thousand 
chances  to  one  that  she  would  fall  a  thousand  feet  over  the 
precipice — and  then  sat  on  his  horse,  white  as  a  sheet  and  too 
badly  scared  to  attempt  rescuing  her,  yelling  like  a  booby  for 
help,  until  that  coarse  fellow  from  somewhere  out  West  came 
up  and  grasped  her  just  as  she  was  going  over." 

What  would  not  Horace  Townsend  have  given  for  a  grip 
of  the  throat  of  Captain  Hector  Coles  at  that  moment  ?    And 


T  HE       COWARD.  369 

what  would  he  not  have  given  to  hear  Margaret  Hayley 
say :  "  I  do  not  believe  the  story  !  The  man  who  leaped 
into  the  Pool  the  other  day,  is  not  the  booby  and  poltroon  you 
would  make  him,  just  because  you  are  jealous  of  him,  Captain 
Hector  Coles  !"  What,  we  say,  would  the  listener  not  have 
given  to  hear  thai  ?  Alas  ! — he  had  no  reason  to  expect  any 
such  word,  and  no  such  word  was  spoken.  Margaret  Hayley 
merely  rose  from  her  seat,  saying  : 

"  Now,  if  you  have  finished  that  rigmarole,  in  which  nobody, 
I  think,  is  in  the  least  interested,  we  will  go  to  the  house,  for 
I  am  taking  cold." 

The  others  rose,  and  the  three  moved  towards  the  house- 
Horace  Townsend  did  not  move  towards  the  house,  but  in 
another  direction,  his  heart  on  fire  and  his  brain  in  a  whirl. 
But  as  they  went  ofi*  he  heard  the  Captain  say,  apparently  in 
response  to  some  remark  of  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley 's  which  was 
not  caught  at  that  distance  : 

"  Of  course  I  believe  him  to  be  a  coward  as  well  as  a  dis- 
reputable character.  Any  man  who  would  flinch  from  any 
exposure,  especially  like  that  on  a  mere  edge  of  a  cliiF,  to  save 
life,  is  the  basest  kind  of  a  coward.  Such  men  ought  to  stand 
a  little  while  among  bullets,  as  we  have  to  do,  and  they  would 
soon  show  themselves  for  what  they  are  worth." 

Horace  Townsend  saw  nothing  more  of  either  that  night, 
or  of  any  of  the  others  with  whom  this  narration  has  to  do. 
There  was  no  music,  other  than  that  of  the  piano,  in  the  parlor 
of  the  Crawford,  and  early  beds  were  in  requisition.  Many, 
who  had  not  ascended  the  mountains,  had  ridden  hard  and 
long  in  other  directions  ;  and  for  the  people  of  the  Mount 
Washington  cavalcade  themselves — they  were  very  tired,  very 
much  exhausted  and  very  sleepy,  and  romance  and  flirtation 
were  obliged  to  succumb  to  aching  bones  and  the  invitatioQs 
of  soft  pillows.  Halstead  Ptowan,  even,  did  not  roll  a  single 
game  of  ten-pins  before  he  retired  to  his  lonely  chamber — 
physico-thermometrical  proof  of  the  general  worn-out  condi- 
tion ! 

23 


370  THE      COWARD, 


CHAPTER   XYIII. 

Horace  Townsend  and  Margaret  Hayley — A  strange  Ren- 
contre IN  THE  Parlor — Another  Rencontre,  equally 
strange  but  less  pleasant — How   Clara  Yanderlyn 

FADED   AWAY   FROM    THE    MOUNTAINS — AnD    HOW   THE    Co- 

MANCHE  Rider  disappeared. 

Breakfast  was  nearly  over,  the  next  morning,  and  many 
of  the  guests  had  left  the  tables,  when  Horace  Townsend 
strolled  into  the  parlor,  attracted  by  the  ripple  of  a  set  of  very 
light  fingers  on  the  piano — something  not  usual  at  that  early 
hour.  He  found  the  great  room  entirely  unoccupied,  except  by 
the  player;  and  he  had  half  turned  to  leave  the  room  in  order 
to  avoid  the  appearance  of  intrusion,  when  he  ventured  a 
look  at  the  pianist  and  discovered  her  to  be  Margaret  Hayley  ! 
Then  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  bowed,  and  was  again  about 
to  retire,  when  the  young  girl  ro."=e  from  tl>€  piano  and  ad- 
vanced towards  him.  He  was  a  man,  past  those  years  when 
the  blood  should  rush  to  the  face  with  the  rapidity  of  that  of 
a  school-girl ;  but  the  dark  cheek  was  certainly  flame  in  an 
instant  as  she  came  nearer,  and  when  she  spoke  his  name  his 
whole  appearance  evinced  some  feeling  so  much  like  terror 
that  the  object  of  it  seemed  to  start  back  with  a  correspond- 
ing emotion.  That  w^as  the  first  instance  in  which  he  had 
chanced  to  be  alone  for  one  moment  with  the  lady,  from  the 
time  of  their  first  meeting  at  the  Profile,  and  something  might 
be  forgiven  a  bachelor  on  that  account ;  but  some  cause  be- 
yond this  must  have  moved  that  man,  accustomed  alike  to 
society,  to  the  company  of  women  and  the  making  of  public 
appearances. 

If  he  tried  to  speak,  his  breath  did  not  shape  itself  into 
audible  words  ;  and  Margaret  Hayley  was  very  near  him 
and  had  herself  spoken,  before  he  in  any  degree  recovered 
from  that  strange  confusion. 


THE      CO  \V  A  R  D.  S71 

"  Good-morninj:^,  Air.  Townsend,"  she  said  ;  and — mingled 
surprise  and  rapture  to  the  man  who  had  licard  himself  so 
denounced  in  her  presence  the  night  before  ! — she  held  out 
those  long,  slight,  dainty  white  fingers  to  shake  hands  with 
him  1  An  advance  like  that,  and  from  her  !  That  thought 
seemed  almost  to  take  away  his  breath,  and  he  really  per- 
mitted those  tempting  fingers  to  be  extended  for  quite  a  mo- 
ment before  he  took  them. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Hayley,"  at  length  he  uttered,  in  a 
voice  low  and  perceptibly  husky,  taking  the  offered  hand  at 
the  same  instant,  but  scarcely  holding  it  so  long  as  even  the 
briefest  acquaintance  might  have  warranted. 

One  instant's  pause  :  the  lady  was  not  doing  as  ladies  of 
her  delicacy  and  gentle  breeding  are  in  the  habit  of  doing 
under  corresponding  circumstances — she  was  looking  the 
lawyer  steadily  and  still  not  boldly  in  the  face,  penetrating 
inquiry  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  would  read  the  soul  through 
the  countenance,  and  yet  with  an  interest  shown  in  her  own 
which  made  the  act  a  compliment  instead  of  an  insult, 

''I  am  afraid  that  you  are  not  a  very  cordial  friend,"  at  last 
she  said.  "I  hoped  that  I  had  made  one,  the  other  day,  after 
nearly  drowning  you  ;  but  last  night  you  merely  bowed  with- 
out speaking,  and  this  morning  when  you  see  me  you  attempt 
to  run  away !" 

There  was  warm,  genial,  kindly  pleasantry  in  her  tone — 
pleasantry  a  little  beyond  what  the  proud  face  indicated  that 
she  would  bestow  upon  any  casual  acquaintance  ;  and  per- 
haps that  recognition  did  something  to  unlock  the  tongue  that 
had  been  silent. 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  remember  me  at  all !"  he  said. 
*'  Some  of  us  poor  fellows  of  the  rougher  sex  have  reason  to 
be  glad  to  form  new  acquaintances  or  remember  old  ones;  but 
beautiful  women  like  yourself.  Miss  Hayley,  are  much  more 
likely  to  wish  to  diminish  the  list  than  to  increase  it." 

"  What ! — a  compliment  already  I"  she  said,  in  the  same 
tone  of  gayety.     "But  I  forgot — you  told  me  that  you  were  a 


S72  THE      COWARD. 

lawyer,  and  I  believe  that  you  all  have  a  sort  of  license  to  say 
words  that  mean  nothing." 

"Oh,  you  paid  the  first  compliment!"  answered  Townsend, 
catching  her  tone,  as  they  turned  in  the  unconscious  prom- 
enade into  which  their  steps  had  shaped  themselves,  and 
walked  down  the  still  lonely  parlor. 

"  I  ?     How  ?"  she  asked. 

"By  noticing  me  at  all  I"  was  the  reply. 

"  Very  neatly  turned,  upon  my  word  ! — and  still  another 
repetition  of  the  same  compliment  smuggled  into  it !  Decidedly 
you  must  be  a  dangerous  man  in  the  presence  of  a  jury." 

"  Let  me  hope  that  you  will  not  consider  me  so,  and  I  shall 
be  content  with  the  other  part  of  the  reputation," 

Xeither  said  any  thing  more  for  a  moment,  though  they 
were  still  walking  together  with  any  thing  rather  than  the 
manner  of  comparative  strangers.  Then  Horace  Townsend 
paused  in  his  walk,  and  said,  his  voice  falling  nearly  as  low 
as  it  had  been  at  first : 

"  Miss  Hayley,  this  is  the  first  opportunity  that  I  have 
enjoyed  of  speaking  with  you,  away  from  the  ears  of  others. 
Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  do  not  deal  altogether  in  compli- 
mentary badinage,  but  speak  a  few  words  of  earnest  ?" 

"What  can  y<5u  mean,  Mr.  Townsend?"  She  looked  at 
him  for  a  moment,  as  if  in  doubt,  then  added  :  "  Yes,  cer- 
tainly I" 

"Then,  to  be  candid — that  is,  as  candid  as  I  dare  be,"  said 
the  lawyer,  "I  have  taken  the  great  liberty  of  being  very 
much  interested  in  you,  since  the  first  day  we  met.  I  had 
no  reason  to  expect  you  to  be  correspondingly  impressed, 
but—" 

"  What  am  7  to  expect  at  the  end  of  this,  Mr.  Townsend  ?" 
she  interrupted  him.  "  Are  you  sure  that  you  are  not  about 
to  say  very  imprudent  words,  out  of  time,  out  of  place,  and 
that  may  do  much  evil  while  they  cannot  accomplish  any 
good  ?" 

He  saw  her  put  her  left  hand  to  her  heart,  when  she  made 


THE      COWARD.  373 

the  interruption,  as  if  some  sudden  pang  had  pierced  her  or 
some  organic  pain  was  located  there ;  and  all  the  past  gayetj 
of  her  manner  was  gone. 

"  I  am  perfect!}-  sure,  Miss  Hayley  I"  he  said,  bowing ;  and 
the  assurance  was  received  with  a  nod  of  confidence.  "  I  have 
only  said  what  any  gentleman  of  respectability  ought  to  be 
able  to  say  to  any  lady  without  ofience — that  I  have  been 
very  much  interested  in  you  ;  and  I  was  about  to  say  that 
while  I  had.no  reason  to  expect  nn^  impression  to  be  returned, 
yet  I  felt  that  I  had  a  right  to  fair-dealing  and  no  unfavorable 
prejudgment." 

"Fair-dealing?  prejudgment?"  she  uttered,  in  a  not  un- 
natural tone  of  surprise.  "Does  my  conduct  of  this  morn- 
ing— oh,  what  am  I  saying  ? — Mr.  Townsend,  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you  !" 

"Of  course  you  cannot,  until  I  explain,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  I  have  just  said  that  you  honored  me  too  much,  but  I  cannot 

extend  that  remark  to  some  of  your  most  intimate  friends • 

Captain  Coles,  for  instance — who  may  be — I  hope  you  will 
excuse  what  may  sound  like  an  impertinence  but  is  certainly 
not  intended  to  be  such — more  nearly  connected  with  yourself 
and  your  future  plans  in  life  than  I  have  any  right  to  know." 

There  was  respectful  inquiry  in  his  tone,  though  he  by  no 
means  put  the  remark  as  a  question.  Margaret  Hayley 
recognized  the  tone  but  did  not  see  the  keen  interrogation  in 
his  eyes  at  that  moment,  for  her  own — those  proud,  mag- 
nificent eyes — were  drooped  to  the  floor. 

"  By  which  you  mean,'-'  answered  the  lady,  "that  you  think 
it  possible  that  Captain  Coles  is  my  betrothed  husband." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say — j^es !"  said  the  lawyer,  his  voice  again 
dropped  very  low. 

"  Well,  the  remark,  which  amounts  to  a  direct  question,  is 
certainly  a  singular  one  to  come  from  a  man  who  has  no 
right — even  of  old  acquaintance — to  make  it,"  responded 
Margaret.  "  And  yet  I  will  answer  it,  a  little  more  frankly 
than  it  was  put !     Captain  Hector  Coles  is  not,  and  never 


374  THE      COWARD. 

will  be,  any  nearer  in  relationship  to  myself  than  you  see  him 
to-day." 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the  confidence,  to  which,  as 
you  say,  I  have  no  right,"  said  Townsend.  "  It  makes  what 
I  have  yet  to  say  a  little  easier.  I  beg  you  not  to  misunder- 
stand me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  was  last  evening  an  acci- 
dental listener  to  the  story  of  my  disgraceful  conduct  coming 
down  the  mountains,  as  told  by  the  Captain  at  second-hand, 
as  well  as  to  his  allegations  that  I  was  a  coward  and  an 
adventurer."  '^ 

Margaret  Hayley  did  not  say  "  What,  eaves-dropping  ?"' 
as  the  heroine  of  sensation  romance  or  melo-drama  would 
certainly  have  been  called  upon  to  do.  She  did  not  even 
question  how  he  had  heard  what  he  alleged.  She  merely 
said  : 

"  I  am  sorry,  indeed,  if  you  heard  words  that  should  never 
have  been  spoken." 

"  I  did  hear  them,"  pursued  the  lawyer,  "  and  I  really  did 
not  suppose,  this  morning,  that  after  hearing  the  statements 
made  by  the  Captain,  you  would  even  have  cared  to  pursue 
the  very  slight  speaking  acquaintance  you  had  done  me  the 
honor  to  form  with  me." 

"  Had  I  believed  them,  I  would  not !"  spoke  the  lady, 
frankly. 

"  And  you  did  not  believe  them  ?"  Tone  ver\'  intense  and 
anxious. 

"  Not  one  word  of  them  !"     Tone  very  sharp  and  decided. 

"  God  bless  the  heart  of  woman,  that  leaps  to  tbe  truth 
when  the  boasted  brain  of  man  fails  !"  said  Townsend,  fer- 
vently. "  Not  every  word  that  he  said  was  a  falsehood,  but 
every  injurious  one  was  so,  if  I  know  myself  and  what  I  do. 
May  I  tell  you  what  really  occurred  yesterday  on  the  moun- 
tain, so  that  you  may  better  understand  the  next  version  ?" 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  hear  your  account,"  she  replied, 
'  for  the  incident  must  at  all  events  have  been  a  thrilling  one." 

"  It  was  thrilling  indeed,  as  you  suppose,"  said  the  lawyer. 


TEE      COWARD.  875 

**  People  form  romances  sometimes  out  of  much  less,  I 
fancy !"  The  two  stood  by  the  window,  looking  at  the 
hurrying  to  and  fro  of  drivers  and  passengers  preparing  for 
some  late  departures ;  and  so  standing,  Horace  Townsend 
briefly  and  rapidly  related  the  facts  of  the  adventure.  Mar- 
garet Hayley  did  not  turn  her  eyes  upon  him  as  he  spoke, 
and  a  part  of  the  time  she  was  even  drumming  listlessly  and' 
noiselessly  on  the  glass  with  those  dainty  white  fingers  ;  but 
that  she  was  listening  to  him  and  to  him  only  was  evident, 
for  the  speaker  could  catch  enough  of  her  side-glance  to 
know  that  eye  and  cheek  were  kindling  with  excitement,  and 
he  could  hear  the  quick  breath  laboring  in  throat  and  nostrils 
almost  as  if  she  herself  stood  in  some  situation  of  peril.  She 
was  interested — he  felt  and  knew  it, — not  only  in  the  danger 
of  Clara  Yanderlyn  and  the  rash  bravery  in  riding  of  Halstead 
Rowan,  but  in  him — in  the  scape-goat  of  the  occasion  ;  and 
he  was  stirred  by  the  knowledge  to  a  degree  that  made  a 
very  cool  and  clear  head  necessary  for  avoiding  a  plunge 
quite  as  fatal  in  its  effects  as  would  have  been  that  from  the 
brow  of  the  precipice  ^ver  the  gulf. 

"  And  that  is  the  whole  story — a  dull  one,  after  all,  I  am 
afraid  !"  he  said,  not  altogether  candidly,  perhaps,  in  con- 
clusion. 

"  Dull  ?  oh  no,  Mr.  Townsend,  every  thing  but  dull  I"  was 
her  reply.  "■  I  have  seldom  been  so  much  interested  in  any 
relation.  And  the  facts,  so  far  as  they  relate  to  yourself,  are 
very  nearly  what  I  should  have  supposed  after  hearing  the 
story  floating  about  the  hotel." 

"  You  seem  to  have  something  of  the  legal  fciculty — that 
of  sifting  out  truth  from  falsehood,  grain  from  chaff!"  said 
the  lawyer,  looking  at  her  a  little  searchingly. 

"I?  No,  not  always,  though  I  may  be  able  to  do  sb 
sometimes,"  she  said,  somewhat  sadly,  and  with  a  sigh  choked 
in  its  birth.  "  I  have  made  some  terrible  mistakes  in  the 
judgment  of  character  and  action,  Mr.  Townsend,  youn^  as 
my  life  is ;  but  perhaps  the  effect  of  all  that  is  to  m'ake  me  a 


376  THE      COWARD. 

little  more  careful  in  the  reception  of  loose  statements,  and 
so  I  may  have  lost  nothing.     And  now — " 

" — I  have  occupied  as  much  of  your  time  as  you  can  spare 
me  this  morning,"  the  lawyer  concluded  the  sentence  for  her, 
with  a  smile  calculated  to  put  her  at  her  ease  in  the  dismissal. 

"  Well,  you  draw  conclusions  pretty  rapidly !"  she  said, 
turning  her  eyes  upon  him  curiously.  "  I  was  going  to  ex- 
cuse myself;  and  yet  I  should  not  be  afraid  to  make  a  small 
woman's-wager  that  you  err  in  at  least  half  of  your  calcu- 
lation ?" 

"  As  how  ?"  asked  the  lawyer,  somewhat  surprised. 

"Why,  Mr.  Townsend,"  answered  Margaret  Hayley  (and 
what  woman  who  held  less  true  pride  and  less  confidence  ia 
herself  would  ever  have  spoken  so  singularly,  not  to  say 
boldly  ?)  *'  it  is  at  perhaps  a  rather  early  period  in  our  ac- 
quaintance for  me  to  return  your  candor  with  any  thing  that 
corresponds,  and  yet  I  feel  disposed  to  waive  the  woman's 
right  of  reticence  and  do  so.  You  think  that  I  am  already 
tired  of  your  company  and  conversation,  and  that  when  you 
leave  me  I  may  go  into  pleasanter  company.  You  are  mis 
taken — I  think  you  will  not  misunderstand  me,  any  more 
than  I  did  you  a  while  ago,  when  I  say  that  I  quite  recipro- 
cate the  interest  and  friendship  you  have  expressed,  and  that 
I  shall  not  go  into  more  congenial  associations  when  I  leave 
you  !     There,  will  that  do  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  smiling,  but  there  was  a  tell-tale  flush  ou 
either  cheek,  as  she  said  this  and  extended  those  taper  fingers, 
bending  her  proud  neck  the  while,  it  must  be  confessed,  a 
Wile  as  a  queen  might  do  when  conferring  knighthood  upon 
one  of  her  most  favored  nobles.  Horace  Townsend,  in  strict 
propriety,  should  have  taken  that  offered  Land  in  the  tips  of 
his  own  fingers,  liowed  over  it,  and  let  it  fall  gently  back  to 
its  place.  Pie  was  not  playing  strict  propriety,  as,  indeed, 
the  lady  had  not  been  for  the  past  few  minutes  ;  and  whether 
he  took  that  chance  before  the  surprised  owner  of  the  hand 
could  draw  it  away,  or  whether  there  was  very  little  surprise 


THE      C  O  W  A  R  1).  377 

or  offence  in  the  matter,  certain  it  is  that  though  he  did  bow 
over  the  hand,  he  bowed  too  low— so  low  that  his  still 
warmer  lips  touched  the  warm  fingers  with  a  close,  clinging 
pressure,  and  that  the  breath  from  those  lips  sent  a  tingle 
through  every  pulse  of  that  strange  gir),  who  was  either 
dangerously  frank  or  an  arrant  coquette. 

That  rape  of  the  fingers  perpetrated,  Townsend  turned 
away,  too  suddenly  to  notice  whether  his  action  had  planted 
yet  deeper  roses  on  the  lady's  check.  Margaret  Hayley  went 
back  towards  the  piano,  without  another  word,  apparently  to 
re-commence  her  suspended  musical  exercises,  and  the  lawyer 
passed  through  the  door  leading  into  the  hall.  He  did  not 
do  so,  however,  sufficiently  soon  to  escape  the  notice  of 
Captain  Hector  Coles,  who,  apparently  on  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery after  the  truant  Margaret,  strode  into  the  parlor  just 
as  the  other  was  leaving  it,  and  as  he  nodded  managed  at  the 
same  time  to  stare  into  the  lawyer's  face  in  so  supercilious 
and  insulting  a  manner  that  he  fairly  entitled  himself  to  what 
he  did  not  receive — a  mortal  defiance  or  a  blow  on  the  spot  I 
It  was  plain  that  he  recognized  Margaret  Hayley  at  the 
piano,  and  that  he  saw  she  must  have  been  alone  with  the 
object  of  his  suspicion  and  hatred  :  was  there  not  indeed 
some  cause  for  the  face  of  the  gallant  Captain  assuming  such 
an  arrogant  ferocity  of  aspect  as  might  have  played  Gorgon's 
head  to  a  whole  rebel  army  ?  But  the  awkward  meeting  did 
not  seem  seriously  to  disturb  the  young  lady :  she  looked  up 
from  her  keys,  saw  the  foes  in  the  doorway,  saw  the  glance 
they  interchanged,  and  then  dashed  those  bewitching  fingers 
into  a  German  waltz  of  such  startling  and  impudent  brilliancy 
that  it  seemed  to  accord  almost  premeditatedly  with  certain 
points  in  her  own  character. 

Here,  to  Horace  Townsend,  the  curtain  of  that  morning 
shut  down.  He  passed  on  and  did  not  see  the  meeting  be- 
tween Captain  Hector  Coles,  and  "  the  lady"  (more  or  less) 
"of  his  love,"  which  may  or  may  not  have  been  cordial  and 
ao:reeable  to  an  extreme  ! 


878  THE      COWAKD. 

Another  of  those  inevitable  dashes,  here.  They  are  very 
nseful,  as  they  prevent  the  necessity  of  a  steady  and  unbroken 
narration  which  would  not  be  at  all  like  real  lifo — that  thing 
most  unsteady  and  most  constantly  broken  into  fragments. 

The  reader,  who  is  perhaps  by  this  time  somewhat  sated 
with  White  Mountain  scenery  (though,  sooth  to  say,  no  gazer, 
however  old  a  habitue,  ever  was  so) — the  reader  is  to  be 
spared  an}'  further  infliction,  except  as  one  remaining  point 
of  personal  adventure  may  require  the  advantage  of  appro- 
priate setting  ;  and  the  mountains  themselves  are  soon  to  fade 
away  behind  writer  and  reader,  as  they  have  faded  away  amid 
longing  and  lingering  looks  from  the  eyes  of  so  many,  losing 
their  peaks  one  by  one  as  they  swept  up  Northward  by 
rail  from  Gorham  or  rolled  down  Southward  by  coach  through 
the  long  valley  of  the  Pemigawasset  to  Plymouth.  The 
thousand  miscellaneous  beauties  of  the  AYhite  Mountain 
!N'otch,  grander  than  those  at  the  Franconia  but  far  less  easy 
of  intelligent  description — the  magnificent  long  rides  down  the 
glen  and  over  the  bridges  that  span  the  leaping  and  tumbling 
rock-bedded  little  Saco — the  Willey  House  with  its  recollec- 
tions of  a  sad  catastrophe  and  its  one-hundred-and-fifty-eighth 
table  being  cut  up  and  sold  in  little  chips  at  a  dime  each,  as 
''the  one  used  by  the  unfortunate  Willey  Family," — all  these 
must  wait  the  eye  that  is  yet  to  see  them  for  the  first  time,  or 
linger  unrecounted  in  the  memories  of  those  who  have  made 
them  a  loving  study  in  the  past.  Personal  adventure  must 
hurry  on,  like  the  ever  accelerating  course  of  the  goaded  and 
maddened  nation,  and  eliciting  the  same  inquiry — whither'^ 

Two  days  following  the  events  already  recorded,  and  all 
the  difi'erent  characters  involved  in  this  portion  of  the  life- 
drama,  yet  lingered  at  the  Crawford.  On  one  of  the  two  days 
another  ascent  of  Mount  Washington  had  been  made  ;  but 
with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley,  her  daughter  and 
Captain  Hector  Coles,  all  those  people  peculiarly  belonging  to 
us  had  already  made  the  ascent,  and  it  was  the  intention  of  the 
Philadelphia  matron  (perhaps  a  little  influenced  by  the  story 


THE      COWARD.  879 

of  the  Yanderlyn  peril)  to  go  up  herself  and  take  up  her 
small  party  from  the  Glen  House  by  carriage,  when  her  stay 
at  the  Crawford  should  be  completed. 

In  all  that  time  we  have  no  data  whatever  for  declaring  the 
state  of  affairs  existing  between  Halstead  Rowan  and  the  lady 
vvhose  auburn  hair  had  lain  for  those  few  blissful  moments  on*- 
his  breast.  Probably  no  explicit  love-declaration  had  passed 
between  them  ;  and  Mrs.  Yanderlyn  and  her  arrogant  son 
were  sufficiently  familiar  with  all  the  modes  by  which  those 
who  wish  to  be  together  can  be  kept  apart,  to  prevent  any  of 
those  dangerous  "  opportunities"  which  might  otherwise  have 
wrought  an  immediate  mesalliance  upon  the  stately  house  of 
Tanderlyn.  If  the  would-be  lovers  met,  they  only  met 
beneath  watchful  eyes  ;  and  Halstead  Kowan,  who  had  already 
(■•isplayed  that  amount  of  dash  and  recklessness  in  personal 
exposure  indicating  that  an  elopement  down  the  mountain 
roads,  with  a  flying  horse  beneath  him  and  his  arm  around 
the  lady's  waist,  would  have  been  the  most  congenial  thing 
in  life  to  his  nature, — even  had  Clara  Yanderlyn  been  weak 
enough  to  yield  to  such  a  proposal,  bore  all  the  while  within 
him  too  much  of  the  true  gentleman  to  lower  himself  by  a 
runaway  alliance,  or  to  compromise  the  character  of  the 
woman  he  wished  to  make  his  wife  by  wedding  her  otherwise 
than  in  the  face  of  all  who  dared  raise  a  word  of  opposition. 
So  there  seemed — heigho,  for  this  world  of  disappointments, 
hindrances,  and  incongruities  ! — little  prospect  that  anything 
more  could  result  from  the  meetings  that  had  alread}^  been  so 
eventful,  than  an  early  and  final  parting,  and  two  lives 
shadowed  by  one  long  regret  that  the  fates  had  not  ordained 
otherwise. 

But  little  more  can  be  said  of  the  fortunes,  during  those 
two  days,  of  Horace  Townsend  and  the  lady  of  the  proud  eyes 
and  the  winning  smile.  Two  or  three  times  they  had  met 
and  conversed,  but  only  for  a  moment,  and  they  had  by  no 
means  ever  returned  again  to  the  sudden  cordiality  and  con- 
fidence of  that  first  morning.     Something  in  the  manner  of 


380  THE      C  O  W  A  R  D . 

Margaret  Hayley  seemed  to  give  token  that  she  was  fright- 
ened at  the  position  she  had  assumed  and  the  emotions  of  her 
own  heart  (might  she  not  well  have  been — she  who  but  a 
month  or  two  before  had  been  clasped  to  the  breast  of  an  ac- 
cepted lover  and  believed  that  she  held  towards  him  a  life- 
long devotion  ?);  and  something  in  the  demeanor  of  Horace 
Townsend  quite  as  conclusively  showed  that  he  was  treading 
ground  of  the  solidity  of  which  he  was  doubtful,  and  impelled 
to  utter  words  that  could  not  be  spoken  without  sacrificing 
the  whole  truth  of  his  manhood  !  Captain  Hector  Coles  had 
believed  his  name  an  assumed  one  and  looked  after  the  initials 
on  his  handkerchief  to  satisfy  himself  of  the  fact ;  and  the 
reader  has  found  reason  to  believe  that  there  was  really  an 
assumption  :  did  that  departure  from  truth  already  begin  to 
assert  its  penalty,  when  he  was  brought  into  contact  with  a 
woman  who  showed  her  own  candor  so  magnificently  ? 
Strange  problems,  that  will  be  solved  eventually  without  any 
aid  from  the  imagination. 

Once  during  that  two  days  there  had  been  a  collision  be- 
tween the  lawyer  and  the  Y.  A.  D.  C,  not  one  word  of  which, 
probably,  had  reached  the  ears  of  the  lady  in  w^hose  behalf  it 
had  occurred,  from  the  lips  of  the  politic  Captain,  or  from  any 
of  those  who  saw  and  heard  it, — as  it  certainly  had  not  been 
hinted  to  her  by  the  other  party  in  the  rencontre. 

That  collision  had  happened  in  this  wise. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  on  which  the  very  pleas- 
ant interview  with  Margaret  Hayley  took  place  in  the  parlor 
of  the  Crawford,  Horace  Townsend  strolled  into  the  billiard- 
saloon.  Since  the  night  before,  in  one  particular  direction, 
he  had  been  decidedly  ill-tempered,  not  to  say  ferocious ;  and 
however  he  might  have  been  softened  for  the  moment  by  the 
encounter  of  the  morning,  in  one  respect  that  encounter  had 
left  him  much  more  likely  to  assault  the  man  who  had  calum- 
niated him  so  foully,  than  he  could  have  been  before  a  certain 
assurance  had  been  given  him  on  that  occasion.  Then  the 
oificer's  stare  into  his  face,  when  leaving  the  room,  had  not 


THE      COW  A  ED.  i)Sl 

tended  to  remove  any  of  his  bile  ;  he  did  not  believe,  it  is 
probable,  that  he  would  stand  any  the  worse  with  the  pecu- 
liarly constituted  Margaret  Hayley,  in  the  event  of  an  insult 
to  the  man  who  had  insulted  him  coming  to  her  knowledge  ; 
and  in  short  he  had  been  all  day  prepared,  at  any  time  when 
he  could  do  so  with  most  effect,  to  repay  him,  interest  in- 
cluded, in  his  own  coin  of  ill-treatment.  How  soon  or  how 
effectually  his  opportunity  was  coming — the  opportunity  of  all 
others  for  a  stab  in  a  vital  part, — he  had  no  idea  when  he  en- 
tered the  billiard-room. 

Several  gentlemen  were  there,  some  playing  and  others 
Bmoking  and  in  conversation.  In  one  corner  of  the  room, 
conversing  with  two  or  three  others.  Captain  Hector  Coles 
was  giving  a  graphic  account  of  the  Battle  of  White  Oak 
Swamp,  in  the  retreat  from  the  Peninsula,  during  one  period 

of  which,  according  to  his  account.  General was  wounded 

and  all  the  field  officers  of  a  whole  division  cut  up,  so  that  he, 
though  only  on  the  staff  and  without  positive  command,  was 
obliged  to  direct  all  the  movements  and  eventually  to  head 
three  different  charges  by  which  the  enemy,  four  or  five  times 
superior  in  numbers  in  that  part  of  the  field,  were  finally  re- 
pulsed with  great  slaughter.  The  story,  as  told,  was  a  good 
one,  and  Captain  Hector  Coles  played  the  part  of  Achilles  in 
it  to  perfection,  especially  as  there  did  not  happen  to  be  pres- 
ent (and  there  is  strong  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  assured 
himself  of  the  fact  in  advance)  a  single  officer  who  had  shared 
in  the  Peninsular  campaign.  He  was  emphatically,  just  then, 
the  hero  of  the  hour,  in  that  most  assured  of  all  points  of 
view,  a  military  one.  It  does  not  follow  that  Horace  Town- 
send  had  been  an  actor  in  the  Peninsular  campaign,  but  he 
certainly  arrogated  to  himself  some  knowledge  of  very  small 
details  that  had  taken  place  at  Glendale,  for  he  was  guilty  of 
the  great  rudeness  of  breaking  in  upon  a  conversation  in 
which  he  was  not  included,  with  a  question  that  served  as  a 
sort  of  pendant  to  the  story  of  the  Captain  : 

"  Let  me  see — it  was  in  one  of  those  charges,  Captain,  or 


382  T  n  K      C  0  W  A  R  D . 

was  it  wliilc  carrying  some  order,  that  you  had  tliat  bad  at- 
tack of  giddiness  in  the  head  and  were  obliged  to  dismount 
and  lie  behind  one  of  the  brush-heaps  in  the  swamp  for  an 
hour?" 

"Who  the ."     The  Captain,  who  had  not  recognized 

the  voice  or  seen  the  intruder,  began  to  ask  some  question 
which  he  never  finished,  for  he  checked  himself  as  suddenly 
as  if  he  had  been  about  committing  a  serious  blunder.  But 
he  recovered  himself  very  quickly,  and  pieced-out  the  remark 
so  that  it  seemed  very  much  as  if  he  had  pursued  his  original 
intention. 

"  Who  the are  you,  Horace  Townsend  as  you  call 

yourself,  to  put  in  your  remarks  when  gentlemen  are  in  con- 
versation ?" 

"  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  ashamed 
of  it.  I  happened  to  hear  Colonel  D relate  the  little  cir- 
cumstance not  long  after  the  battle  ;  and  I  thought,  from  your 
leaving  it  out,  that  you  might  possibly  have  forgotten  it." 

The  gentlemen  present  stared  from  one  to  the  other  and 
said  nothing.  Such  plain  speaking  w^as  a  novelty  even 
among  the  excitements  of  mountain  life.  The  Captain  began 
by  having  si  very  white  face,  and  ended  with  having  a  very 
red  one. 

"  Colonel  D lied,  if  he  said  any  thing  of  the  kind  !"  he 

foamed. 

"I  will  tell  him  you  say  so,  the  next  time  I  meet  him," 
was  the  cool  reply,  "  and  you  can  try  the  little  question  of 
veracity  between  yourselves." 

"Xo,  I  -v^ll  try  it  with  youP^  the  Captain  almost  shouted. 

"  You  are  the  liar — not  Colonel  D ,  and  I  will  shoot  you 

as  I  would  a  dog." 

"  You  will  be  obliged  to  do  it  by  waylaying  me,  then," 
answered  the  lawyer.  "Apart  from  any  objection  I  may  have 
to  duels  in  the  abstract,  I  certainly  am  not  going  out  with  a 
gentleman,''^  and  he  laid  a  terrible  stress  upon  the  word — "a 
gentleman  who  picks  pockets." 


THE      C  O  W  A  K  1) .  883 

"  Gentlemen  !  gentlemen  !''  expostulated  one  or  two  at 
that  period. 

'•Recall  that  word,  or  I  will  shoot  you  on  the  spot !"  cried 
the  Captain,  his  face  now  fiery  as  blood  itself,  and  his  hand 
moving  up  to  his  breast  as  if  he  really  followed  the  cowardly 
practice  of  carrying  a  revolver  there,  while  meeting  in  peace- 
ful society.  If  he  had  a  weapon  and  momentarily  intended 
to  draw  it,  he  desisted,  however. 

•■'  I  will  not  recall  the  word,  but  I  will  explain  it,"  answered 
the  lawyer.  "  I  heard  you  confess  last  night,  Captain  Hector 
Coles,  in  the  midst  of  al)Out  half  an  hour's  falsehoods  about 
my  poor  self,  that  you  had  picked  my  poc-ket  of  a  handker- 
chief, the  night  before  in  the  ten-pin  alley.  After  that  and 
the  little  indisposition  at  White-Oak  Swamp,  I  think  you  will 
all  agree  with  me,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  under  no  obligations 
to  afford  that  person  any  satisfaction." 

"  Coward  !"  hissed  the  Captain.  At  the  word  a  shiver 
seemed  to  go  over  the  lawyer's  frame,  but  he  only  replied : 

"  Yes,  that  was  what  you  called  me  last  night !  Excuse 
me,  gentlemen,  for  interrupting  a  very  pretty  little  story,  but 
I  am  going  away  and  the  Captain  will  no  doubt  continue  it." 

He  did  go  away,  walking  down  towards  the  house,  a  little 
flushed  in  face  but  otherwise  as  composed  as  possible.  Cap- 
tain Hector  Coles  did  not  tell  out  his  story,  for  some  reason 
or  other  ;  and  the  moment  after  he  too  went  away. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  it  all  about  ?"  asked  one  of  the  gentle- 
men when  they  had  both  departed. 

"  Haven't  the  least  idea,"  said  another.  "  Though,  by  the 
way,  the  Captain  has  a  very  pretty  woman  with  him — I  won- 
der if  there  should  not  be  a  lady  at  the  bottom  of  the  trouble, 
as  usual  ?" 

"  Seemed  to  be  some  truth  in  that  story*about  getting  giddy 
in  the  head,  by  the  way  it  hit !"  said  a  third. 

''Don't  look  much  like  cowards,  either  of  them,"  said  a 
fourth.     "And,  now  that  I  think  of  it — -wasn't  that  the  name 


384  T  H  K      C  u  W  A  K  D . 

— Townsend — of  the  fellow  who  leaped  into  the  Pool  the 
other  day  over  at  the  Profile  ?" 

"  Don't  know — shouldn't  wonder — well,  let  them  fight  it 
out  as  they  please — none  of  our  business,  I  suppose  I"  re- 
joined one  of  the  others  ;  and  the  party  dispersed  in  their 
several  directions. 

Such  was  the  scene  in  the  billiard  room  ;  and  it  was  not 
strange  that  more  than  a  day  after,  no  report  of  it  had  come 
to  the  ears  of  Margaret  Ilayley  or  her  mother,  through  the 
medium  of  any  of  the  bye-standers ;  for  the  persons  most 
nearly  interested  are  not  those  who  first  hear  such  revelations 
of  gossip.  That  neither  the  Captain  nor  Horace  Townsend 
should  personally  have  spoken  of  it  to  Margaret  is  quite  as 
natural,  for  reasons  easily  appreciated.  That  young  lady, 
with  two  lovers  more  or  less  declared,  was  accordingly  very 
much  in  the  dark  as  to  the  peculiarly  volcanic  character  of 
her  admirers  and  the  chances  that  at  some  early  day  they 
might  fall  to  and  finish  each  other  up  on  the  Kilkenny-cat 
principle,  leaving  her  with  none  ! 


The  third  day  after  the  ascent  of  Washington  by  our  party 
witnessed  its  disruption  in  some  important  particulars.  The 
morning  stage  down  the  Notch  took  away  the  Yanderlyns, 
on  their  way  to  Lake  Winnipiseogee  and  thence  to  Xewport. 
They  had  been  in  the  mountains  little  more  than  a  week,  but 
seen  most  of  the  points  of  interest  at  the  Franconia  and  White 
Ketches  ;  and  other  engagements,  previously  formed,  were 
hurrying  them  forward,  as  humanity  in  the  Xew  World  is 
always  hurried,  whether  engaged  in  a  pleasure  tour  or  a  life 
labor.  They  left  a  vacancy  behind  them,  and  foretold  the 
gradual  flight  of  all  those  summer  birds  who  had  made  the 
mountains  musical,  and  the  coming  of  those  long  and  desolate 
winter  months  when  the  rooms  then  so  alive  with  life  and 
gayety  should  all  be  bare  and  empty,  the  snow  lying  piled  in 
valley  and  on  mountain  peak  so  deeply  that  no  foot  of  man 
might  venture  to  tread  them,  and  the  wild  northern  blast 


THE      COWARD.  885 

wailInG:  tliroiiu-li  tlie  o-oj-nrps  and  around  tlio  doscrlod  (Iwcll- 
iiii^s  jis  il"  sounding  a  requiem  for  the  Ille  and  love  and  Jiope 
iled  away. 

They  left  a  blank — all  the  three  ;  and  yet  how  diftVrent  was 
the  vacauey  eaused  by  each  of  the  three  departures  !  Mrs. 
Yanderlyn,  a  lady  in  the  highest  fashionable  aeeeptanee  of 
the  term,  but  so  i)roud  and  stately  that  her  better  qualities 
were  more  than  half  hidden  beneath  the  icy  crust  of  conven- 
tionalism,— had  dazzled  much  and  charmed  to  a  great  degree, 
but  won  no  regard  that  could  not  be  supplied,  after  a  time, 
by  some  other.  Her  son  Frank,  handsome  and  gifted  but 
arrogimt  beyond  endurance,  had  won  no  friends  wherever  be 
moved,  except  such  friends  as  money  can  mould  from  sub- 
servience ;  and  his  going  away  left  no  regrets  except  in  the 
breasts  of  the  landlords  whom  he  lavishingly  patronized  and 
the  servants  whom  he  subsidized  after  the  true  Southern 
fashion.  But  Clara  Yanderlyn,  who  seemed  to  have  fallen 
among  the  mountains  with  the  softness,  innocence  and  tender- 
ness of  a  snow-flake — Clara  with  her  gentle  smile,  her  sweet, 
low  voice  and  wealth  of  auburn  hair, — the  friends  sJte  had 
formed  from  the  rough  ore  of  strangerhood  and  then  from  the 
half-minted  gold  of  mere  acquaintance,  were  to  be  numbered 
only  by  counting  the  inmates  of  the  houses  w^here  she  made 
her  sojourn  ;  and  therp  was  not  one,  unless  the  exception  may 
have  been  found  in  some  spiteful  old  maid  who  could  not  for- 
give her  not  being  past  forty,  angular  and  ugly,  or  some  man 
of  repulsive  manners  and  worse  moral§  who  had  been  intui- 
tively shunned  by  the  pure,  true-hearted  young  girl — not  one 
but  lifted  up  a  kind  thought  half  syllabled  into  bnjath,  as  they 
caught  the  last  glimpse  of  the  sunny  head — "  God  bless  her !" 

It  is  a  rough,  difficult  world — a  cold,  hard  world,  in  many 
regards.  The  brain  is  exalted  at  the  expense  of  the  hf^irt, 
and^cheming  intellect  counted  as  the  superior  of  unsuspicious 
innocence  and  goodness.  "Smart"  —  "keen"  —  "sharp"  — 
these  are  the  flattering  adjectives  to  be  applied  even  to  the 
Bisters  we  love  and  the  daughters  we  cherish,  while  in  that 
24 


386  THE      COWARD. 

one  word  "  soft"  lies  a  volume  of  depreciation.  And  of  those 
educated  with  such  a  thought  in  view,  are  to  be  the  mothers 
of  our  land  if  we  have  a  land  remaining  to  require  the  exist- 
ence of  mothers.  Is  not  a  little  leaven  of  unquestioning  ten- 
derness necessary  to  season  the  cold,  hard,  crystallizing 
mass?  Will  womanhood  still  be  that  womanhood  which  has 
demanded  and  won  our  knightly  devotion,  when  all  that  is 
reliant  and  yielding  becomes  crushed  or  schooled  away  and 
clear-eyed  Artemis  entirely  usurps  the  realm  once  ruled  by 
ox-eyed  Juno  ?  Will  there  be  any  chivalry  left,  when  she 
who  once  awoke  the  spirit  of  chivalry  stands  boldly  out,  half- 
unsexed,  the  equal  of  man  in  guile  if  not  in  bodily  strength, 
and  quite  as  capable  of  giving  as  of  requiring  protection  ? 
And  may  we  not  thank  God  for  the  few  Clara  Yanderlyns  of 
the  age — the  gentle,  impulsive,  unreasoning  souls,  who  make 
the  heart  the  altar  upon  which  the  first  and  b.est  tribute  of 
life  is  to  be  laid — who  love  too  soon,  perhaps,  and  too  irre- 
vocably, but  so  escape  that  hard,  cold  mercantile  calculation 
of  the  weight  of  a  purse  and  the  standing  of  a  lover  in 
fashionable  society,  upon  which  so  many  of  their  sisters 
worse  wreck  themselves  than  they  could  do  by  any  imprudent 
love-match  that  did  not  bring  absolute  starvation  within  a 
twelvemonth  ? 

This  is  something  of  a  rhapsody,  perhaps  ;  and  let  it  be  so. 
It  flows  out,  unbidden,  under  the  impulse  of  a  gentle  memory  ; 
and  sweet  Clara  Tanderlyn,  Avhen  she  goes  to  her  long  n.'St, 
might  have  a  worse  epitaph  carved  upon  the  stone  above  her 
head,  than  the  simple  legend  :   "  She  lived  to  love." 

But  if  the  going  away  of  Clara  Yanderlyn  left  a  blank  in 
the  social  circle  at  the  Crawford,  what  must  have  been  the 
effect  produced  by  it  upon  Halstead  llowan,  the  chivalrous  and 
the  impressible,  with  a  heart  as  big  as  his  splendid  Western 
physique,  who  could  have  little  prospect  of  ever  meeting  her 
again  except  under  circumstances  of  worse  disadvantage  than 
had  fought  against  him  in  the  mountains,  and  who  could  en- 
tertain no  more  hope  of  ever  wedding  her  without  bringing 


THK      COWARD.  887 

her  painfully  down  from  her  position  in  society,  than  he  could 
of  plucking  one  of  the  stars  harmlessly  from  its  place  in 
heaven  ! 

The  lllinoisan  was  not  upon  the  piazza  when  the  coach  drove 
away.  If  any  farewell  had  been  made,  it  had  been  made 
briefly  and  hurriedly,  where  no  eye  but  their  own  could  see  it. 
Horace  Townsend  thought  of  all  that  has  been  here  set  down, 
and  looked  around  for  Rowan  at  the  moment  of  their  de- 
parture ;  but  ho  w^as  invisible.  The  lawyer  had  himself  a 
pleasant  word  of  farewell  and  shake  of  the  hand  as  she  stepped 
to  her  seat  in  the  coach,  from  the  young  girl  whose  dangerous 
perch  upon  the  pinnacle  of  the  mountains  he  was  not  likely 
soon  to  forget ;  and  then  the  door  closed  and  she  disappeared 
from  his  sight  perhaps  forever  in  life,  leaving  him  thinking 
of  the  pleasant  afternoon,  so  few  days  before,  when  he  gazed 
for  the  first  time  upon  her  sweet  face  as  they  came  up  from 
Plymouth  and  Littleton, — and  of  the  romance  connected  with 
her  which  had  since  been  crowded  into  so  brief  a  space. 

He  saw  nothing  of  Rowan  for  an  hour  after.  Then  he  met 
him  walking  alone  up  the  road  north  of  the  house,  with  his 
head  bent  down  a  little  and  something  dim  and  misty  about 
the  eyes  that  even  gave  a  suspicion  of  the  late  unmanliness 
(that  is  what  the  world  calls  it !)  of  t^ears.  He  raised  his 
head  as  he  recognized  the  lawyer,  and  held  out  his  hand  in  a 
silence  very  unlike  his  usual  bold,  frank  greeting.  Townsend, 
who  may  all  the  while  have  had  quite  enough  matters  of  his 
own  to  demand  his  whole  attention,  could  not  help  pitying  the 
subdued  manner  and  the  downcast  look  that  sat  so  strangely 
upon  the  usually  cheerful  face.  There  had  been  nothing  like 
it  before,  within  his  knowledge — not  even  on  the  night  when 
he  had  been  so  foully  insulted  by  Frank  Yanderlyn  at  the 
Profile. 

The  lawyer  knew,  intuitively,  what  must  be  the  subject  of 
conversation  to  which  the  mind  of  Rowan  would  turn,  if  his 
lips  did  not;  and  he  felt  c[uite  enough  in  his  confidence  to 
humor  him. 


S88  TUB      COWARD. 

"I  did  not  see  you  this  morning-,"  he  said. 

"  When  they  went  away  ? — no  !"  was  the  answer.  No  fear 
that  his  listener  could  misunderstand  who  "  they"  were,  and 
he  did  not  display  the  cheap  wit  of  pretending  to  do  so. 

"You  look  down-hearted  !  Come — that  will  never  do  for 
the  mountains — especially  for  the  boldest  rider  and  the  most 
dashing  fellow  that  has  ever  stepped  foot  among  them  !"  and 
he  laid  his  hand  somewhat  heavily  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
other,  as  if  there  might  be  power  in  the  blow  to  rouse  and 
exhilarate.  It  did  indeed  produce  the  effect  of  making  him 
throw  up  his  head  to  its  usual  erect  position,  but  it  was  be- 
yond any  physical  power  to  lighten  the  dark  shadow  that  lay 
upon  his  face. 

"You  are  a  good  fellow  as  well  as  a  gentleman,  Townsend," 
he  said.  "I  wish  /was  a  gentleman — one  of  the  miserable 
dawdling  things  that  know  nothing  else  than  small  talk  and 
the  use  of  their  heels.  Then,  and  with  plenty  of  money,  I 
should  know  what  to  do." 

"  And  what  icoidd  you  do  ?"  asked  the  lawyer. 

"  Marry  the  woman  I  loved,  in  less  than  a  month,  or  never 
speak  to  a  woman  again  as  long  as  I  lived  !"  was  the  ener- 
getic reply.  "  As  it  is,  I  am  a  poor  devil — only  a  railroad 
conductor  !  What  business  have  J,  with  neither  money  in 
ray  pocket  nor  aristocratic  blood  in  my  veins,  to  think  of  a 
woman  who  has  white  hands  and  knows  nothing  of  household 
drudgery  ?" 

"A  woman,  however,"  said  Townsend,  "who  could  and 

would  learn  household  drudgery,  and  do  it,  for  the  sake  of  the 

man  she  loved — well,  there  is  no  use  in  mincing  the  matter — 

for  you, — and  think  it  the  happiest  thing  she  ever  did  in  all 

.  her  life  !" 

"  God  bless  her  sweet  face  !  do  you  think  so  ?  do  you  really 
believe  that  personally  she  likes  me  well  enough  to  marry 
me  if  my  circumstances  were  nearer  her  own  ?"  He  had 
grasped  Townsend  by  the  hand  with  one  of  his  own  and  by  the 
arm  with  the  other,  with  all  the  impetuosity  of  a  school-boy; 


THE      COWARD.  889 

but  before  the  latter  could  answer  be  dropped  the  hand  and 
the  tone  of  inquiry,  and  said  :  "  Pshaw  !  What  use  in  asking 
that  question  ? — I  know  she  could  be  happier  with  me  than 
with  any  other  man  in  the  world,  and  that  makes  the  affair  all 
the  more  painful." 

"  Heigho  1"  said  the  laywer,  "you  are  not  the  only  man  in 
the  world  who  does  not  see  his  way  clearly  in  matrimonial 
affairs,  and  you  must  not  be  one  of  the  first  to  mope." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  replied  the  Illinoisan.  *' But  then  you, 
with  your  wealth  and  education — you  can  know  nothing  of 
such  a  situation  except  by  guess  ;  and  so  your  sympathy  is  a 
little  blind,  after  all." 

"  Think  so  ?"  asked  Horace  Townsend.  "  Humph  I  well, 
old  boy,  confidence  for  confidence,  at  least  a  little !  Look  me 
in  the  face — do  you  see  any  thing  like  jest  or  trifling  in  it  ?" 

"No,  it  is  earnest,  beyond  a  doubt." 

"  Then  listen  for  one  moment.  Halstead  Rowan,  I  do  not 
believe  that  there  is  any  barrier  between  Clara  Yanderlyn 
and  yourself,  that  cannot  be  removed  if  you  have  the  will  to 
remove  it.  Now  for  myself.  What  would  you  think — "  He 
stopped  and  seemed  to  consider  for  a  moment,  while  the  other 
watched  him  narrowly  and  with  much  interest.  Then  he 
went  on  :  "  You  saw  me  meet — well,  we  will  mention  no 
names — the  lady  down  at  the  house,  the  same  night  on  which 
you  chanced  upon  your  own  destiny." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Illinoisan, 

"You  thought,  no  doubt,  that  it  was  a  first  meeting.  And 
so  it  was,  on  her  part,  for  she  had  never  before  met  Horace 
Townseud,  to  know  him.  But  what  would  you  think  if  I 
should  tell  you  that  I  bad  seen  and  loved  her,  many  months 
before — that  she  was  then  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  very 
different  person,  though  a  man  in  the  same  profession — that 
I  love  her  so  madly  as  to  make  my  life  one  long  tortpre  on 
her  account — that  I  am  throwing  myself  into  her  company, 
under  circumstances  that  if  she  knew  them  would  make  her 
shrink  away  from  me  with  loathing — and  that  such  a  barrier 


890  THB      COWARD. 

exists  between  us  that  I  have  not  much  more  hope  of  winning 
her  than  of  bending  down  one  of  yon  mountain  peaks  to  kiss 
me,  while  I  can  no  more  avoid  the  trial  than  the  drunkard 
can  keep  away  from  his  glass  or  the  madman  escape  his 
paroxysm  !" 

"  Is  all  that  true  ?"  asked  Rowan,  who  had  been  looking  at 
the  speaking  face  with  still  increasing  wonder. 

"  Every  word  of  it,  and  more  !"  was  the  reply.  / 

"  Then  my  situation  is  nothing,  and  1  have  been  whining 
like  a  school-boy  before  I  was  half  whipped  !"  exclaimed  the 
Illinoisan.  The  effect  intended  by  the  other  had  been  pro- 
duced :  he  had  been  made  to  see  that  there  could  be  even 
worse  barriers  between  man  and  woman,  than  differences  of 
family  and  fortune.  And  once  teach  any  man  that  there  is 
something  worse  that  might  have  happened  to  him,  than  that 
which  has  indeed  happened — much  is  achieved  towards  bring- 
ing him  to  resignation  if  not  to  content. 

"I  have  told  you  all  this,"  said  the  lawyer,  " partially  be- 
cause I  felt  that  I  had  no  right  to  be  acquainted  with  so  much 
in  your  situation  while  you  knew  nothing  of  mine,  and  partially 
because  I  was  really  anxious  to  showyou  that  others  than  your- 
self sometimes  find  rocks  in  the  bed  of  that  pleasant  stream 
which  the  poets  call  'true  love.'  And  now  that  I  have  gone 
so  far,  involving  reputation  as  well  as  happiness,  I  know  that 
you  will  do  me  the  only  favor  I  ask  in  return,  and  forget  that 
I  have  said  a  word  on  the  subject." 

"  I  have  forgotten  it  already,  so  far  as  repeating  it  to  any 
mortal  man  is  concerned,"  replied  the  Illinoisan.  He  paused 
an  instant,  as  his  friend  had  done  before,  and  then  he  added  : 
"  Meeting  you  has  been  the  pleasantest — no,  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest  incidents  of  my  days  among  the  mountains,  and  I  am 
glad  that  you  have  made  me  feel  so  much  nearer  to  your  con- 
fidence at  the  moment  of  parting." 

"Parting?  What,  are  you  going  away  already  ?"  asked 
Townsend. 

"At  once,"  answered  Halstead  Rowan.     "  I  should  think, 


THK      CO  WARD.  891 

tlioiip:h,  that  you  would  scarcely  need  to  ask  the  question  I 
My  friends  and  myself  are  going  to  start  back  for  Littleton 
immediately  after  dinner,  and  on  to  Montreal  to-morrow.  Do 
you  think  that  I  could  sit  at  that  table,  as  I  feel  just  now, 
more  than  one  meal  longer,  and  think  of- the  vacant  chairs? 
Ko — I  am  a  baby,  I  suppose,  and  God  knows  whether  I  shall 
ever  grow  any  older  and  wiser  I" 

"  God  forbid  that  you  ever  should  grow  so  old  and  so  wise 
as  to  be  able  to  master  your  heart  altogether  1"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  I  am  sorry  to  part  with  you,  for  I  too,  have  made  a  pleas- 
ant acquaintance.  But  you  are  right,  no  doubt.  Try  a  little 
change  of  scene ;  and  you  will  be  calmer  next  week,  if  not 
happier." 

They  were  now  near  the  house,  and  walked  on  for  a  mo- 
ment in  silence.  Suddenly  Rowan,  catching  up  the  last 
words  at  some  distance,  turned  short  around  and  said : 

"  Townsend,  I  am  going  to  change  something  besides  scene 
^—life!  I  am  going  back  into  the  army  again,  not  for  a  frolic 
this  time,  but  as  a  profession.  OiBicers  are  gentlemen,  are 
they  not,  even  in  fashionable  society  ? — and  would  not  a  pair 
of  shoulder-straps  make  somebody  even  out  of  a  railroad  con- 
ductor ?" 

His  tone  was  half  badinage,  but  oh,  what  a  sad  earnest  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  it !  His  companion  understood  him  too  well 
to  reply,  and  the  conversation  was  not  renewed.  They  parted 
at  the  piazza  a  moment  after.  Two  or  three  hours  later,  after 
a  long  grasp  of  the  hand  which  went  far  to  prove  that  strong 
friendship  between  men  has  not  become  altogether  a  myth 
since  the  days  of  David  and  Jonathan,  of  Damon  and  Pythias, 
they  parted  at  the  same  piazza  once  more  and  for  a  period 
that  no  human  calculation  could  measure.  Horace  Townsend 
and  Halstead  Rowan  were  almost  as  certain  never  to  meet 
again  after  that  parting  moment,  as  if  one  of  the  two  had  been 
already  done  with  life  and  ticketed  away  with  the  dead 
Guelphs  and  Bourbons ! 


S92  THE      COWARD. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
A  Strange   Character  at  Breakfast — "  The   Rambler" 

AND    HIS  AnTEGEIJENTS WUAT    HORACE  TOWNSEND    HEARD 

ABOUT  Fate — Going  up  to  Pic-nic  on  Mount  Willard — 
The  Plateau,  the  Rope  and  the  Swing — Spreading  the 
Banquet — The  Dinner-call  and  a  Cry  which  answered 
IT — A  Fearful  Situation. 

At  breakfast,  the  next  morning  after  the  departure  of  the 
Illinoisau,  a  somewhat  strange  character  was  called  to  the 
attention  of  the  guests  at  the  Crawford  ;  and  a  few  of  them, 
sitting  near  him,  entered  into  conversation  with  him  when 
they  discovered  the  peculiar  habits  of  life  and  mind  which  had 
for  years  made  him  an  object  of  interest  to  visitors  among  the 
mountains.  He  had  been  absent  southward  of  the  range,  in 
Pinkham  Xotch,  at  Glen  Ellis  Falls  and  other  wild  localities 
lying  north  of  Conway,  for  the  preceding«!two  or  three  weeks, 
only  arriving  the  night  before  ;  and  very  few  of  the  persons 
then  present  at  the  Crawford  had  seen  him  except  in  half-for- 
gotten meetings  in  previous  years.  He  called  himself  and 
was  called  by  others  who  knew  him  (very  few  of  whom,  prob- 
ably, knew  him  by  any  other  name)  "  The  Rambler,"  and 
his  habits  of  life  were  said  to  justify  the  appellation  most  com- 
pletely, as  his  appearance  certainly  accorded  with  the  precon- 
ceived opinions  of  an  itinerant  hermit. 

He  was  a  man  evidently  past  fifty,  with  a  face  much  wrinkled 
by  time  and  roughened  by  exjxtsure — with  a  high  forehead 
bald  nearly  to  the  apex  of  the  head,  long  grizzled  hair,  rapidly 
ai)proaching  to  white,  tumbled  about  in  careless  profusion, 
beard  straggling  and  ungraceful  and  graying  as  fast  as  the 
hair,  and  something  melancholy  and  unsettled  in  the  eye 
which  indicated  that  his  wandering  habits  might  have  had  an 
origin,  many  years  before,  in  some  loss  or  misfortune  that 
made  quiet  a  torture.     In  figure  he  was  rather  below  than 


THE      COWARD.  893 

above  the  middle  height,  with  a  certain  wiriness  in  the  limbs 
and  a  hard  look  in  the  bones  and  tendons  of  the  hand,  sug- 
gestive of  unusual  activity  and  an  iron  grip. 

But  when  they  came  to  know  more  of  him  from  the  explana- 
tions of  the  servants  and  a  little  listening  to  his  own  conver- 
sation, those  who  on  that  occasion  first  met  him  had  reason  to 
confess  that  the  Rambler  needed  all  the  iron  nerve  and  hard 
endurance  indicated  by  his  physique.  They  believed  him  to 
be  a  man  of  nieajis,  and  he  certainly  spent  money  with  free- 
dom if  not  with  lavishness,  the  supply  seeming  to  be  as  slight 
and  yet  as  inexhaustible  as  that  of  the  widow's  cruse.  He  spent 
very  little  of  it  upon  his  own  person,  however :  such  a  suit 
of  coarse  gray  woollen  as  he  wore  that  morning,  with  a  slouched 
hat  and  strong  brogan  shoes,  usually  completing  his  outer  equip- 
ment. Sometimes  he  carried  a  heavy  cane,  but  milch  oftener 
went  armed  with  a  stout  staff  of  his  own  length,  cut  with 
ready  hawks-bill  jack-knife  from  a  convenient  oaken  or  hickory 
sapling  and  trimmed  from  its  superabundance  of  knots  by  the 
same  easily-managd^  substitute  for  a  whole  "kit"  of  carpeu- 
ters'-tools. 

This  man,  as  it  appeared,  had  never  missed  coming  to  the 
mountains  for  a  single  summer  of  the  preceding  fifteen  years. 
Whence  he  came,  no  one  knew ;  and  whither  he  went  when 
his  season  was  over  (his  season  had  very  little  to  do  with  the 
fashionable  one.  in  commencement  or  duration),  was  known 
quite  as  little.  He  might  be  looked  for,  they  said,  at  the  Pro- 
file, the  Crawford,  the  Glen,  the  Alpine,  the  White  Mountain 
or  down  in  Pinkham  Notch,  at  any  time  after  they  began  to 
paint  up  and  repair  the  houses  for  the  reception  of  visitors,  in 
early  June  ;  and  he  might  be  expected  to  make  his  appear- 
ance at  any  or  all  of  tliese  places,  any  dny  or  no  day,  during 
the  fall  season  and  even  up  to  the  time  when  the  last  coach- 
load rolled  away  in  Septemljer  and  the  first  snows  began  to 
sprinkle  themselves  on  the  brows  of  Washington  and  Lafayette. 
He  never  remained  at  any  one  of  tlie  houses  more  than  a  few 
hours  at  a  time,  carrying  away  from  each  a  few  sandwiches,  a 


394:  THH      COWAKD. 

little  dried  tongue,  some  cheese  and  crackers  in  a  small  haver- 
sack, and  sleeping  nine  nights  out  of  ten  in  the  open  air,  with 
no  pillow  but  a  stone  or  a  log  of  wood,  and  his  slouched  hat. 
Most  of  the  time  he  was  alone  on  the  tops  of  the  most  diffi- 
cult peaks  or  at  the  bottom  of  gorges  where  no  foot  but  his 
own  would  be  likely  to  tread ;  or  he  was  to  be  seen  dodging 
across  a  path,  stafif  in  hand  and  haversack  on  side,  as  a  party 
was  making  some  one  of  the  ascents, — rather  shunning  any 
company  then  seeking  it,  and  yet  evidently  neithe;'  misan- 
thropic nor  embarrassed  when  thrown  into  society  and  forced 
into  conversation.  Wherever  he  wished  to  go  he  went  on 
foot,  even  when  thirty  or  forty  miles  of  rough  mountain  roads 
and  paths  were  to  be  mearsured ;  and  no  man,  they  averred, 
had  ever  seen  him  set  foot  over  the  side  of  a  vehicle  or  recog- 
nize the  right  of  the  animal  man  to  be  drawn  about  from  place 
to  place  by  his  brother  animal  the  horse. 

So  far  the  Rambler,  according  to  the  accounts  given  of  him, 
was  merely  a  harmless  monomaniac — harmless  even  to  himself, 
as  all  monomaniacs  are  not.  But  beyond^hat  point,  the  ser- 
vants and  some  of  the  old  habitues  averred,  came  positive 
madness.  He  had  been  mad,  since  the  first  day  of  his  com- 
ing to  the  mountains  and  perhaps  long  before,  on  the  idea  of 
climbing.  Many  had  seen  him  go  up  to  those  peaks  and 
down  into  those  ravines  before  mentioned,  and  found  as  little 
disposition  as  ability  to  follow  him.  He  seemed  to  climb 
without  purpose,  except  his  purpose  might  be  the  mere  reck- 
less exposure  of  himself  to  danger  at  which  every  one  except 
himself  would  draw  back  with  a  shudder.  And  that  he  did 
this  without  any  motive  outside  of  himself  for  the  action — 
that  he  had  no  thought  of  awakening  admiration  by  such  ex- 
hibitions,— was  evident  from  the  fact  that  he  was  just  as 
likely  to  make  some  ascent  or  descent  of  the  most  reckless 
fool-hardiness,  when  he  did  not  know  of  the  presence  of  any 
other  person  within  possible  sight,  as  when  he  had  groups  of 
horrified  spectators  ;  and  that  loneliness  was  not  a  condition 
precedent  to  such  an  attempt,  was  just  as  evident  from  the 


TUB      COWARD.  81^5 

fact  that  he  never  seemed  to  desist  because  one  person  or  fifty 
came  suddenly  upon  him  and  "caught  him  in  the  act."  He 
seemed  to  live  in  a  climbing  world  of  his  own,  in  which  he 
was  the  only  resident  and  all  the  others  merely  chance  visi- 
tors who  might  or  might  not  be  in  the  way  when  he  found  it 
necessary  to  hang  himself  like  a  fly  on  the  crags  between 
heaven  and  earth. 

We  are  making  no  attempt  whatever  at  analyzing  the  men- 
tality of  this  singular  man,  whom  many  will  remember  as 
having  met  him  during  some  period  of  the  last  dozen  years, 
at  one  or  more  of  the  Notches  of  the  White  Mountains.  As 
well  might  the  attempt  be  made  to  survey  one  of  his  own 
mountain  tops  or  discover  the  superfices  of  one  of  the  mighty 
masses  of  perpendicular  rock  that  so  often  afforded  him  a 
footing  at  which  the  chamois  would  have  given  up  in  despair 
and  Hervio  Nano  (that  human  "fly  on  the  ceiling")  writhed 
his  boneless  limbs  in  a  shudder  1  We  are  only  roughly  da- 
guerreotyping  the  man  as  he  appeared,  preparatory  to  one 
terrible  incident  which  made  him  an  important  character  in 
this  narration.  Were  any  effort  to  be  made  at  explaining  his 
strange  and  apparently  parposeless  predilection,  perhaps  one 
word  would  come  as  near  to  furnishing  the  explanation  as  five 
hundred  others — excitement.  One  man  drinks  liquors  until 
he  goes  beyond  himself;  another  invites  to  his  brain  the 
tempting  demons  of  opium,  hasheesh  or  nicotine ;  another 
perils  his  prosperity  and  the  very  bread  of  his  family  at  play  ; 
still  another  plunges  into  pleasure  so  deeply  that  the  draught 
is  all  the  while  maddening  agony ;  and  yet  another  claps  spur 
on  heel  and  takes  sword  in  hand  and  rides  into  the  thick  of 
the  deadliest  fight,  without  one  motive  of  patriotism  or  one 
thought  of  duty:  and  all  these  are  seeking  that  which  will 
temporarily  lift  them  above  and  beyond  themselves  (alas  ! — 
that  which  will  just  as  assuredly  plunge  them  below  them- 
selves, in  reaction  !) — excitement.  Who  knows  that  the  poor 
Kambler,  bankrupt  in  heart,  hope  and  memory,  had  not  tasted 
all  the  other  maddening  bowls  and  found  them  too  weak  to 


896  "  THK      COWARD. 

wean  him  from  Iiis  hour  of  suffering,  so  tliat  when  the  fre- 
quent parox3-sm  came  he  had  no  alternative  l)ut  to  place  him- 
self in  some  position  where  the  hand  and  the  foot  could  be- 
come masters  of  every  thought  and  feeling,  that  the  rude 
minstrelsy  of  deadly  danger  might  thus  charm  away  the 
black  moment  from  his  soul ! 

All  this  is  mere  speculation — the  man  may  have  been  noth- 
ing more  nor  less  than  a  maniac;  and  j^et  his  conversation, 
which  was  coherent  and  marked  by  entire  propriety,  did  not 
create  any  such  impression. 

No  one  who  has  made  any  study  of  the  scenery  of  our  North- 
ern Mountains  fails  to  know  that  many  of  them  (and  alniost  all 
the  White  Mountains  that  have  full  descent  on  either  side  to 
either  of  the  Notches)  in  addition  to  the  bald  scarred  brows  of 
cliff  that  on  one  side  or  another  seem  like  faces  lifting  them- 
selves in  stern  defiance  to  the  storm, — have  chased  down 
them,  from  brow  to  foot,  channels  or  "  schutes"  from  which 
the  torrent  or  the  lightning  has  originally  shorn  away  trees, 
herbage  and  at  last  earth,  every  year  wearing  them  deeper 
and  making  more  startling  the  contrast  of  the  almost  direct 
line  of  bluish  gray  cliff,  seeming  the  very  mockery  of  a  path 
that  no  man  can  walk,  with  the  green  of  the  living  grass 
and  foliage  and  the  white  skeletons  of  the  dead  birches,  that 
border  them  on  either  side.  Perhaps  no  feature  of  the  moun- 
tain scenery  is  more  certain  to  awake  a  shudder,  than  such 
"  schutes,"  as  looked  up  to  from  below  or  down  upon  from 
above  ;  as  the  thought  of  a  passage-way  is  inevitable,  fol- 
lowed by  the  remembrance  of  the  headlong  fall  of  any  man 
who  should  attempt  a  progress  so  nearly  perpendicular,  and 
that  followed  by  the  imagination  that  the  gazer  has  really  at- 
tempted it  and  is  falling.  Mount  Webster  and  Mount  "\Vil- 
lard,  at  the  White  Mountain  Notch,  are  more  marked  than 
almost  any  of  the  others,  by  such  features  ;  and  certain  terri- 
ble adventures  along  those  "schutes"  make  part  of  the  re- 
pertoires of  guides  and  the  boasting  stories  of  old  habitues. 
With  one  of  those  descending  Mount  Willard,  and  the  points 


THE      COWAKD.  397 

of  sconorv  immediately  snrroundino;  it,  we  shall  have  painful 
oecasiuu  to  make  more  intimate  acquaintance  in  this  imme- 
diate connection. 

These  "  schutes"  and  their  topocrraphy  were  the  subject  of 
conversation  at  the  breakfast-table  that  mornin<»:,  not  alone  on 
account  of  the  presence  of  the  Rambler,  which  might  have  pro- 
voked it,  but  from  the  fact  that  a  pic-nic  on  the  top  of  Mount 
Willard,  in  the  near  vicinity  of  one  of  those  tempting  horrors, 
had  been  for  some  days  in  contemplation  and  the  wagons  were 
being  prepared  for  going  up  and  the  cold  food  packing  away 
in  baskets  and  hampers  at  the  very  moment  of  that  discus- 
sion. 

"You  must  know  the  mountains  remarkably  well,"  one  of 
the  gentlemen  at  the  table  was  saying  to  the  Rambler. 

"  I  ought  to  do  so,"  was  the  reply.  "  There  is  scarcely  a 
spot  from  Littleton  to  Winnipiscogee  that  my  foot  has  not 
touched  ;  and  I  may  almost  say  that  there  is  not  a  spot  whero 
I  have  not  eaten  or  slept."  He  said  this  in  a  manner  as  far 
removed  from  any  desire  to  make  a  display  of  himself  as 
from  any  thing  like  modesty — merely  as  the  fact,  and  there- 
fore a  matter  of  course. 

"I  heard  you  speaking  of  climbing  the  schutes  a  moment 
ago,  but  I  did  not  quite  catch  what  you  said,"  spoke  another. 
''  You  certainly  cannot  hold  on  to  the  rocks  alone,  when  they 
are  so  nearly  perpendicular,  can  you  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  answered  the  Rambler,  "of  course  that  would 
be  impossible.  I  suppose  I  have  a  sure  foot  and  a  steady 
hand,  and  those  schutes  always  have  trees  and  shrubbery 
beside  them,  all  the  way  down.  It  is  no  trouble  to  hold  on 
to  them — at  least  it  is  not  so  to  w^." 

"Ugh  !"  said  yet  another — "rather  you  than  me  1  Such 
exposures  are  terrible  !"  and  he  shuddered  at  the  picture  his 
imagination  had  been  drawing. 

"  They  may  be  terrible,  and  I  suppose  that  they  are  so,  to 
some  people,"  was  the  quiet  reply.  "  Habit  is  every  thing, 
no  doubt.     Some  of  you  might  walk  into  battle,  if  you  have 


898  THB      COWARD. 

been  there  before,  a  good  deal  more  coollj  than  I  eould  do, 
even  though  you  had  a  good  deal  more  to  sacrifice  in  life 
than  myself  in  the  event  of  a  bullet  goiug  astray." 

'■'  Bullets  never  go  astray,  nor  do  men  fall  down  the  rocks 
accidentally !"  put  in  a  breakfaster  who  wore  a  white  neck- 
cloth but  no  mock-sanctimonious  visage.  "  I  am  afraid, 
brothers,  that  you  all  forget  the  Overruling  Hand  which 
guides  all  things  and  prevents  what  thoughtless  people  call 
'  accidents.'" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Horace  Townsend.  "  Domine,  do  you  carry 
fatalism,  or  predestination,  if  you  like  the  word  any  better, — 
so  far  as  to  believe  that  every  step  of  a  man  is  supernaturally 
protected  ?" 

"  It  is  supernaturally  ordered,  beyond  a  doubt :  it  may  be 
protected,  or  quite  the  opposite,"  was  the  minister's  smiling 
reply.  "  And  I  might' go  a  step  further  and  say  that  every 
man  is  supernaturally  upheld,  when  doing  a  great  duty, 
however  dangerous,  so  that  that  result  may  follow,  whether 
it  come  in  life  or  death,  in  success  or  failure — which  may  be 
eventually  best  for  him  as  well  as  best  for  the  interests  of 
heaven  and  earth,  all  men  and  all  time." 

"  A  sublime  thought,  and  one  that  may  be  worth  calling  to 
mind  a  good  many  times  in  life  !"  was  all  the  reply  that  the 
lawyer  made,  and  he  took  no  further  part  in  the  conversation. 
He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  the  moment  after ;  and  Margaret 
Hayley  (who  had  now  become  to  some  extent  his  "  observer," 
as  he  had  erewhile  filled  the  same  office  to  Halstead  Rowan 
and  Clara  Yanderlyn) — Margaret  Hayley,  sitting  at  a  con- 
siderable distance  up  the  table  on  the  opposite  side,  saw 
that  his  face  seemed  strangely  moved,  and  that  there  was 
intense  thought  in  the  eye  that  looked  straight  forward  and 
yet  apparently  gazed  on  vacancy. 

Meanwhile  the  Rambler  had  not  yet  ceased  to  be  an  object 
of  interest ;  and  a  little  warning  (such  as  he  had  undoubtedly 
heard  a  good  many  times  during  his  strange  life)  was  to 
follow  the  inquiries  and  the  speculations. 


Tns    COWARD.  899 

"  Then  you  probably  do  not  think,  Domine,"  said  one  of 
the  interlocutors  in  response  to  the  remark  which  seemed  to 
have  struck  Horace  Townsend  so  forcibly,  "that  our  friend 
here  is  under  any  especial  supernatural  protection  when 
climbing  up  and  down  places  where  he  has  no  errand  what- 
ever except  his  own  amusement." 

"  I  might  think  so,  if  I  had  the  power  to  decide  that  he 
was  really  attempting  no  good  whatever  to  himself  or  others," 
w^as  the  reply.  "  But  as  I  cannot  so  decide,  though  I  certainly 
think  such  exposures  of  life  very  imprudent,  I  shall  be  very 
careful  not  to  express  any  such  opinion." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  certainly  wish  you  no  harm," said  another,  "but 
if  all  accounts  are  true,  I  think  that  you  expose  yourself  very 
recklessly,  and  I  expect,  some  day,  to  hear  that  the  pitcher 
you  have  carried  once  too  often  to  the  well  is  broken  at 
last." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  the  Rambler,  w^ithout  one  indication 
on  his  features  that  he  was  either  frightened  or  moved  by  the 
sur^'-gestions.  "  I  am  long  past  the  middle  of  life— my  limbs 
are  not  quite  so  nimble  as  they  once  were — and  if  I  do  make 
a  miss-step  some  time  and  get  killed,  I  hope  that  they  will 
allow  me  to  lie  peaceably  where  I  fall !" 

After  which  strange  wish  the  conversation  went  no  further. 
Breakfast  was  just  breaking  up  ;  and  a  few  moments  after- 
wards some  w^ho  were  standing  on  the  piazza  saw  the 
Rambler  stepping  away  down  the  road,  haversack  of  bread, 
cheese,  and  meats  strapped  under  his  left  arm,  and  his 
weather-beaten  slouched  hat  thrown  forward  to  shield  his 
eyes  from  the  morning  sun  that  came  streaming  low  and 
broad  up  the  Notch. 

It  was  perhaps  an  hour  afterwards  when  two  wagons 
drew  up  at  the  door,  ready  to  bear  some  score  of  the  visitors 
up  Mount  Willard  for  the  expected  pic-nic.  A  third  wagon 
had  started  ahead,  bearing  provisions  enough  to  have  sup- 
plied a  small  army — all  to  be  wasted  or  made  into  perquisites 
for  the  servants  by  a  frolic  dictated  a  little  by  ennui  and  not 


400  THE      COWARD. 

a  little  In'  a  love  for  any  tliiiiir  novel  or  merry.  Two  or 
tliree  of  liie  young  men  staving  at  the  house  had  been  up 
Mount  Willard  a  few  days  before,  and  on  their  return  they 
had  brought  such  flattering  accounts  of  a  magnificent  broad, 
green  plateau  which  they  had  discovered  (how  many  times 
it  had  before  been  discovered  is  not  stated)  not  far  from 
the  end  of  the  carriage-road,  on  the  southern  brow  of  the 
mountain  and  overlooking  the  cascades  and  the  edge  of 
the  DeviPs  Den, — that  the  effect  produced  on  the  as 
yet  untravelled  people  at  the  Crawford  by  the  announce- 
ment was  very  much  the  same  that  we  may  suppose  to  have 
been  manifested  at  the  Court  of  Castile  and  Leon  when 
Columbus  came  back  with  the  Indians,  the  birds'-feathers  and 
the  big  stories.  The  young  men  had  signalized  their  own 
faith  in  the  desirableness  of  the  land  as  a  place  of  permanent 
occupation,  by  possessing  themselves  of  a  small  coil  of  inch 
rope,  lying  unused  in  one  of  the  out-houses  since  the  re-erec- 
tion of  the  Crawford  (after  the  fire  of  the  winter  before),  in 
1859,  carting  it  in  a  wagon  up  the  mountain  and  to  the 
tempting  plateau,  and  there  using  one  end  of  it  and  a  seat- 
board  to  make  such  a  stupendous  swing  between  two  high 
trees  that  stood  on  one  side  of  the  green  space,  as  had  probably 
never  been  seen  before  in  any  locality  where  the  clouds  every 
morning  tangled  themselves  among  the  branches.  One  of 
them  had  declared  that  he  had  the  "  highest  old  swing,"  in 
that  "  scup,"  ever  taken  by  mortal,  and  a  good  many  believed 
him.  The  swing,  with  its  hundred  feet  or  more  of  super- 
abundant rope,  had  remained  as  a  permanence  ;  a  few  of  the 
ladies  at  the  house  had  been  coaxed  into  going  up  Mount 
Willard  especially  to  indulge  in  that  "scupping"  which 
ordinarily  belonged  to  low  lands  and  lazier  watering-places  ; 
and  for  two  or  three  days  before  preparations  and  arrange- 
ments for  a  pic-nic  had  b^en  in  progress,  destined  to  culmi- 
nate on  that  splendid  cloudless  morning  of  early  August. 

So  much  premised,  nothing  more  need  be  said  than  that  all 
the  few  persons  connected  with  this  relation  and  yet  remain- 


THE      COWARD.  401 

ing  at  the  Crawford,  were  members  of  the  pic-nic  party  of 
twenty  or  tvveuty-flve,  a  pleasant  mingling  of  both  sexes 
but  not  of  all  the  ages  ;  that  Captain  Hector  Coles  and 
Margaret  Hayley  went  up  especially  in  each  other's  company, 
as  w-as  both  usual  and  proper ;  that  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley, 
getting  ready  to  go  on  to  the  Glen  and  a  little  absorbed  in 
one  of  the  ministerial  brethren  whom  she  had  found,  did  not 
ascend  a  mountain  on  any  such  vain  and  frivolous  errand  as 
a  mere  pic-nic  ;  that  Horace  Townsend  rode  up,  in  a  different 
w^agon  from  that  occupied  by  Margaret  and  her  cavalier,  and 
with  no  one  in  charge,  or  even  in  especial  company — precisely 
as  he  had  gone  up  Mount  Washington  ;  that  the  party,  in 
both  wagons,  was  very  merry  and  tuned  to  the  highest  possi- 
ble pitch  of  enjoyment ;  that  the  usual  jolts  incidental  to  very 
bad  mountain  roads  were  periodically  encountered,  and  the 
little  screams  and  jerkings  at  protecting  coats,  ordinarily  con- 
sequent thereupon,  were  evoked  ;  that  a  few  magnificent  views 
down  the  Notch  and  among  the  sea  of  peaks  were  enjoyed, 
with  a  few  contretemps  among  the  riders  adding  zest  thereto  ; 
that  nearly  every  one  would  have  been  willing  to  make  oath 
that  they  had  been  "all  but  upset  down  the  mountain" 
several  times,  when  they  had  not  really  been  even  once  in  that 
threatening  predicament;  and  that  after  something  more  than 
an  hour  of  riding  they  found  themselves  and  their  pic-nic 
preparations  at  the  end  of  the  carriage-road  and  very  near 
the  diminutive  promised  land  which  they  had  been  invited 
and  enticed  to  come  up  and  occupy. 

It  was  indeed,  as  those  who  had  never  before  visited  the 
place  found  upon  reaching  it  through,  a  little  clump  of 
trees  and  bushes  beyond  the  termination  of  the  road — a 
spot  well  worthy  the  attention  of  any  visitor  to  the  iS'ot(;h. 
Nothing  else  like  it,  probably,  could  have  been  found  in  tln^ 
whole  chain  of  the  White  Mountains,  following  them  from  tiio 
head  waters  of  the  Androscoggin  to  the  mouth  of  the  Penii- 
gawasset.  For  the  purposes  of  this  veracious  narration  it 
becomes  necessary  to  describe  f^ome  of  the  features  of  the  spot 
25 


402  THE      COWARD. 

more  closely  than  they  would  demand  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances ;  and  the  reader  may  find  it  equally  necessary  to  make 
close  application  of  the  details  of  description,  in  order  fully  to 
appreciate  that  which  must  inevitably  follow,  beyond  the  con- 
trol of  either  reader  or  writer. 

At  some  day,  no  doubt  many  a  long  year  before,  whether 
caused  by  the  melting  of  the  snows  at  the  top  of  the  mountain 
or  by  some  one  of  those  internal  convulsions  which  the  earth 
seems  to  share  with  the  human  atom  who  inhabits  it, — there 
had  been  a  heavy  "  slide"  from  near  the  peak  on  the  south- 
south-western  side,  coming  down  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  before  earth  and  stone  met  with  any  check.  Then  the 
check  had  been  sudden  and  severe,  from  some  obstruction 
below,  and  as  a  consequence  the  slide  had  gone  no  farther 
downward  but  spread  itself  into  a  broad  plateau  of  fifty  or 
sixty  feet  by  one  hundred,  nearly  level  though  with  a  slight 
inclination  downward  towards  the  edge.  There  had  chanced 
to  be  but  few  rocks  at  the  top  of  this  mass  of  earth,  and  the 
southern  exposure  and  shelter  from  the  north  winds  had  no 
doubt  tended  to  warm  and  fertilize  it,  so  that  while  much  of 
the  top  of  the  mountain  was  bald,  scarred  and  bare,  and  all 
the  remainder  covered  with  wild,  rough  forest — this  little 
plateau  had  reall}'  grown  to  be  covered  with  grassy  sward, 
of  no  particular  luxuriance  but  quite  a  marvel  at  that  bleak 
height.  Behind  it,  upward,  the  mountain  rose  gradually 
towards  the  peak,  seen  through  a  younger  growth  of  trees  that 
had  found  their  origin  since  the  catastrophe  which  swept  away 
all  their  predecessors.  On  both  sides  the  thick  tangled  woods 
closed  down  heavily,  leaving  no  view  in  either  direction,  ex- 
cept through  their  swaying  branches  ;  while  in  the  direction 
of  the  slide  itself,  no  tree  intervening  between  the  plateau  and 
its  edge,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  perspectives  of  the  whole 
mountain  range  spread  itself  out  to  the  admiring  gaze. 

Looking  close  as  possible  down  the  side  of  Mount  AVillard, 
at  that  point,  the  trees  and  undergrowth  of  the  gorge  below, 
some  fifteen  hundred  or  two  thousand  feet  away,  could  be 


THE      COWARD.  403 

discerned,  through  tliat  slip^ht  bine  haze  which  marks  distance 
and  faintly  suergests  the  great  depth  of  the  sky.  Lifting  the 
eye,  it  swept  south-westward  and  took  in  a  terribly  rough 
range  of  \vooded  hills  and  minor  mountain  peaks,  with  a  l)road 
intervale  lying  between,  through  which  glittered  and  flashed 
the  little  stream  with  its  white  cascades  which  gave  name  to 
the  spot,  hurrying  down  in  foam  and  fury  to  join  the  Saco  in 
the  broad  valley  below.  Further  westw-ard  and  at  still  greater 
distance  rose  the  mountains  lying  behind  Bethlehem,  with  the 
top  of  Lafayette,  of  the  Franconia  range,  rising  yet  higher 
and  beyond  all,  touched  wath  the  warm  light  of  the  noonday 
sun  and  supplying  a  perfect  finish  to  w^hat  was  truly  an  en- 
chanting picture. 

But  at  the  edge  of  the  plateau  itself  lay  that  which  must 
command  the  most  special  notice  in  this  connection.  Whether 
formed  before  the  slide  or  consequent  upon  it,  one  of  the  most 
precipitous  of  all  the  "  schutes"  of  the  mountains  had  its  start 
at  the  v«ry  centre.  It  had  worn  away  the  earth  of  the  plateau 
in  the  middle,  until  it  reduced  it  nearly  to  the  stone  of  the 
first  formation  ;  while  at  the  side  of  the  narrow  trough  thus 
formed,  thick  trees  and  undergrowth  clustered  as  far  down  as 
the  eye  could  extend,  with  one  sharp  bend  outward  at  the 
right,  and  striking  out  still  beyond  that,  the  massive  roots  of 
a  fallen  tree,  of  which  the  trunk  lay  buried  in  the  earth  and 
covered  W'ith  undergrowth,  w^hile  one  long  thorn  or  fang  of 
the  root  hung  half  way  across  the  chasm  and  suggested  that 
there  of  all  places,  above  the  dizzy  depth  beneath,  one  of  those 
eagles  should  sit  screaming,  that  are  supposed  ever  to  have 
kept  position  on  some  such  outpost,  shouting  hoarse  rage  and 
defiance  through  far  aw^ay  and  desolate  Glencoe,  ever  since  the 
massacre  of  the  Macdonalds.  Still  below  this  and  almost 
touching  the  stony  bottom  of  the  trough  of  the  schute,  another 
and  much  smaller  fang  of  root  extended,  the  broad  bulk  of 
the  side-roots  forming  a  close  wall  between  the  two  branches 
and  the  hedge  of  undergrowth,  almost  as  impervious  to  the 
hand  of  man  and  as  unfavorable  for  any  purpose  of  clinging, 


404  THK      COWARD. 

as  the  sloping  stone  itself.  It  was  a  dizzy  thing  to  look  down 
— that  schute,  as  some  of  the  strouger-sexed,  clearer-headed 
and  surer-footed  of  the  pic-nic  party  found  by  venturing  near 
the  edge,  and  as  they  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  reassure 
themselves  by  any  second  examination. 

The  baskets  and  hampers  had  been  brought'over  from  the 
baggage-wagon,  at  the  same  time  that  the  party  themselves 
made  their  arrival.  Why  it  is  that  people  who  go  out  upon 
pic-nics,  in  any  part  of  the  country  or  indeed  in  any  part  of 
the  globe,  with  high  expectations  of  much  enjoyment  which 
is  to  be  found  in  other  modes  than  the  use  of  the  masticative 
apparatus, — why  it  is,  we  say,  that  all  such  persons,  even 
though  they  may  have  eaten  heartily  not  two.  hours  before, 
become  ravenously  hungry  the  very  moment  they  reach  the 
ground  designated  and  are  good  for  nothing  thereafter  until 
they  have  rendered  themselves  helpless  by  over-eating,-^why 
all  this  is,  we  say  once  more,  passes  human  understanding; 
but  the  fact  remains  not  the  less  patent.  Let  any  frequenter 
of  pic-nics  think  backward  and  try  whether  he  or  she  can  re- 
member any  instance  to  the  contrary, — and  whether  the  con- 
elusion  has  not  been  more  than  once  arrived  at,  in  his  or  her 
particular  mind,  that  the  true  aim  and  object  of  the  pic-nic, 
as  an  institution,  is  to  enjoy  the  eating  of  a  bad  dinner  away 
from  the  ordinary  table  instead  of  a  good  one  properly  spread 
upon  it. 

The  party  on  Mount  Willard  was  mortal,  and  they  bowed 
at  once  to  this  unaccountable  W'eakness  of  mortality.  Five 
minutes  of  inspecting  the  ground  and  viewing  the  scenery ; 
and  then,  while  the  more  selfish  members  of  the  company  or 
those  who  had  eaten  heartier  breakfasts,  flirted,  strolled,  or 
indulged  in  the  doubtful  pleasures  of  the  swing  (which  hung 
between  two  tall  trees  at  the  left  of  the  plateau,  with  a  loose 
hundred  feet  of  rope  at  the  root  of  one),  the  less  selfish  or  the 
more  hungry  applied  themselves  to  spreading  out  on  the  dry 
sward  the  half  dozen  of  cloths  that  had  been  brought  up  from 
the  hotel,  and  to  laying  out  upon  it,  in  various  stages  and 


TUB      COWARD.  405 

phases  of  damac:e  and  disarrangement,  eatables  which  had 
been  appetizing  enough  when  they  left  the  Crawford,  but  of 
which,  now,  they  would  have  been  seriously  puzzled  to  sepa- 
rate the  fish  from  the  farina  or  the  maccaroni  from  the  mustard. 

The  helpful  ladies  and  their  male  assistants  had  just  suc- 
ceeded in  producing  that  amount  of  confusion  among  the 
articles  on  the  spread  table-cloths  which  was  supposed  to  repre- 
sent arranging  the  lunch, — and  the  call  for  volunteers  to  dis- 
arrange it  more  effectually  with  forks  and  fingers  was  about 
to  be  made, — when  one  of  the  gentlemen  looked  up  suddenly 
as  a  shadow  passed  him. 

"  Our  friend  the  Rambler,"  he  said  as  the  other,  with  a 
slight  nod,  recognized  his  notice  and  passed  on  down  the 
plateau  towards  the  thicket  at  the  north-western  edge. 

"  Why  yes,"  said  one  of  the  ladies.  "  He  walked  and  we 
rode,  and  yet  he  seems  to  have  been  up  before  us,  for  he  is 
coming  down  from  the  farthest  side  of  the  mountain." 

"  Shall  I  call  him  and  ask  him  to  take  a  share  in  our  din- 
ner ?"  asked  one  of  the  male  stewards. 

**  No,  it  would  be  useless  :  the  Rambler,  they  say,  gener- 
ally chooses  his  own  society,  and  he  probably  would  not  even 
thank  us  for  the  invitation,"  answered  another.  The  strange 
man  had  by  that  time  passed  into  the  thicket  bordering  the 
edge  of  the  schute  at  the  right,  and  was  seen  no  longer. 
Some  of  the  pic-nickers  noticed,  as  he  passed,  that  he  had  no 
stick  in  his  hands  and  that  his  almost  invariable  companion, 
the  haversack,  was  missing  from  his  side.  But  there  seemed 
to  be  no  occasion  of  commenting  on  so  slight  a  matter,  and 
nothing  was  said  with  reference  to  it. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  among  those  who  had  not  con- 
tributed in  any  way  to  the  spreading  of  thq  miscellaneous 
dinner  upon  the  ground,  were  two  persons  in  whom  this 
narration  maintains  a  peculiar  interest — Horace  Townsend, 
lawyer,  and  Margaret  Hayley,  gentlewoman.  The  lady  had 
been  among  the  early  visitors  to  the  swing ;  and  at  the  time 
of  the  disappearance  of  the  "Rambler  into  the  thicket  at  the 


406  THB      COWARD. 

edge  of  the  schute,  she  was  being  swept  backward  and  for- 
ward in  the  air  by  that  dizzying  contrivance,  at  a  rate  which 
sent  her  loosened  wealth  of  dark  hair  and  her  light  summer 
drapery  floating  about  in  equal  negligence  and  profusion, 
while  the  dainty  white  hands  held  fast  to  the  rope  with  a  ten- 
acity which  showed  them  to  possess  a  commendable  degree 
of  nerve,  and  the  trim  dark  gaiter  enclosing  her  Arab  foot, 
and  the  spotless  stocking  that  rose  above  it,  had  both  just 
that  measure  of  display  which  preserved  the  extremest  bound 
of  delicacy  and  yet  made  the  whole  spectacle  strangely  be- 
witching. Perhaps  the  extraordinary  light  in  her  eye  as  she 
swung  may  have  been  a  little  influenced  by  one  of  the  two  pairs 
of  hands  that  supplied  the  careful  impelling  force  ;  for  those 
hands  certainly  belonged  to  the  lawyer,  who  had  been  a  mem- 
ber of  the  idle  section  from  the  beginning,  while  she  had  wil- 
fully attached  herself  to  it  in  spite  of  the  expostulations  of  the 
Captain.  That  gallant  officer,  by  the  way,  had  been  retained 
among  the  dinner-purveyors  by  the  wiles  and  the  threats  of  a 
little  dark-eyed  minx  from  Providence,  who  cared  no  more 
for  him  than  she  did  for  her  shoe-lace,  but  who  would  flirt 
with  him  and  make  him  flirt  with  her,  because  she  saw  that  he 
was  arrogant,  shoulder-strapped,  and  very  much  afraid  of  being 
seen  for  a  moment  absent  from  the  side  of  Margaret  Hay- 
ley.  The  Captain,  who  was  not  quite  fool  enough  to  believe 
that  he  had  really  made  a  military  conquest  of  the  young 
Yankee  girl,  probably  objurgated  her  in  his  heart  for  her  charm- 
ing impudence  ;  while  Margaret,  more  gratified  by  the  relief 
than  she  cared  to  make  manifest,  may  have  made  private  cal- 
culations of  hugging  that  dear  little  tormentor  the  first  mo- 
ment when  she  could  catch  her  alone. 

Such  was  the  aspect  of  affairs — the  young  girl  in  the  swing, 
Townsend  and  another  gentleman  swinging  her,  half  a  dozen 
merry  young  men  and  girls  gathered  around  the  trees  or  lying 
lazily  on  the  grass,  and  the  other  and  more  industrious  half- 
score  kneeling  and  bending  and  squatting  around  the  table- 
cloths at  U.  C.  of  the   plateau, — when  the  arrangements  (or 


THK      COWAKD.  407 

mis-arrangements)  were  judged  to  be  complete  and  one  of  the 
male  members  of  the  workinjr-detail,  a  little  hungry  and  dis- 
posed to  be  more  than  a  little  witty,  made  up  one  hand  into 
the  shape  of  a  trumpet  and  bawled  through  it : 

"  Oh  yes, — oh  yes  I — know  all  men  and  several  women  by 
these  presents  that  the  regal  banquet  is  spread  and  that  those 
who  intend  to  eat  are  required  to  eat  now  or  ever  after  hold 
their  pieces — if  they  can  find  any  to  hold  !" 

A  merry  farce — the  very  incarnation  of  thoughtless  jollity,— 
the  dinner  and  the  announcement.  It  rung  out  over  the  pla- 
teau, heard  by  all  and  certain  to  be  heeded  by  all ;  to  be  suc- 
ceeded the  very  instant  after  by  a  sound  that  no  member  of 
that  company  will  ever  forget  until  his  dying  day.  A  scream 
of  mortal  agony  and  terror  that  seemed  to  rise  from  the  depths 
of  the  schute,  nondescript  in  some  respects,  as  unlike  what 
any  one  then  present  had  ever  heard,  but  unmistakably 
human  because  the  last  sounds  of  every  repetition  shaped 
themselves  into  words  that  could  be  distinguished  : 

"  Help  !— help  I— help  !" 

For  one  moment  that  fearful  cry  ceased  and  during  that  mo- 
ment all  was  silence  among  the  pic-nickers.  For  that  instant,  too, 
probably  more  than  half  the  company  believed  that  whatever 
the  sound  might  be,  it  was  the  prank  of  some  unscrupulous 
joker,  hidden  away  in  the  undergrowth  near  the  edge  of  the 
schute  and  intended  to  frighten  the  ladies  out  of  any  appetite 
for  their  dinner.  The  time  of  its  coming,  immediately  follow- 
ing the  dinner-call,  was  certainly  favorable  to  that  supposi- 
tion: But  when  it  commenced  again,  the  very  instant  after, 
louder  and  more  shrill,  so  evidently  coming  up  from  the  depth  V 
below,  the  thought  of  practical  jest  vanished  and  every  cheek 
grew  deadly  white  with  the  certainty  that  some  tragedy  was 
being  enacted  near  them,  that  human  eye  must  be  blasted  by 
seeing  and  that  human  hand  could  probably  find  no  power  to 
avert. 

It  would  have  seemed  the  most  unlikely  of  all  things,  when 
that  ambiguous  banquet   on  the    top  of  the  mountain  was 


408  THE      COWARD. 

spread,  tliat  it  sboulrl  never  be  oaten  ;  and  jet  the  fates  had 
so  destined.  Old  Anca3us  had  quite  as  little  faith  in  the  pre- 
diction of  the  slave  whom  he  overworked  in  his  vine3'ard,  that 
he  should  never  taste  of  the  product  of  the  vines ;  and  when 
he  held  the  cup  in  his  hand  and  the  red  wine  was  bubbling  to 
the  brim,  ready  to  show  the  audacious  prophet  the  fallacy  of 
his  prediction,  the  muttered  :  "  There's  many  a  slip  between 
the  cup  and  the  lip  !"  no  doubt  fell  upon  incredulous  ears. 
But  even  then  the  cry  rang  out  that  called  him  to  the  Hunt 
of  the  Calydonian  Boar,  and  the  spirit  of  the  warrior  was 
higher  than  the  pride  of  the  wine-grower  and  the  hard  master. 
The  heavy  cup  went  clanging  to  the  earth,  the  blood  of  the 
grape  flowing  out  to  enrich  once  more  the  ground  from  which 
it  had  been  derived ;  and  the  t3'rant  hero  rushed  away.  The 
slaves  had  a  new  master,  thereafter  ;  and  though  Ancaeua 
may  have  supped  with  the  gods  on  Olympus,  on  the  night 
when  the  great  fight  w^as  over,  he  never  tasted  of  that  wine 
of  his  vineyard  which  had  once  even  been  lifted  to  his  lips  ! 
So  tasted  not  the  diners  on  that  mountain  in  a  far  distant 
land  from  that  which  held  Olympus,  even  when  the  feast  was 
spread  and  the  call  had  been  made  for  their  gathering. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  what  point  of  time  elapsed  before 
any  member  of  that  horrified  company  remembered  the 
Rambler,  his  habits,  the  conversation  of  that  morning,  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  only  a  few  moments  before  been  seea 
going  in  the  direction  from  which  that  piteous  cry  w^as 
coming  up.  It  is  impossible  to  measure  it,  for  at  such 
moments  ages  of  sensation  pass  in  the  very  twinkling  of  aa 
eye.  Some  of  them  did  remember  him,  with  a  groan,  and 
perhaps  the  thought  was  general.  At  all  events  the  conster- 
nation was  so-r— as  general  as  if  some  one  who  had  come 
away  from  the  Crawford  with  them  in  life  and  high  hope,  had 
suddenly  been  stricken  dead  before  their  eyes.  Margaret 
Hayley,  with  the  frightened  cry  which  even  then  shaped  a 
feeling  :  "  Oh,  Mr.  Townsend,  what  can  that  be  !"  dropped 
from  the  swing  and  was  caught  in  arms  outstretched  to  re- 


THE      COWARD.  409 

coive  hor.  By  that  time  all  seated  around  the  table-oloths 
had  sprung  to  their  feet;  and  at  once  every  member  of 
the  party,  male  and  female,  impelled  by  a  curiosity  that  even 
overmastered  fear,  rushed  down  the  plateau  towards  the  edge, 
as  if  some  horrible  madness  had  seized  all  and  they  were  about 
to  spring  off  into  the  great  chasm  below.  But  before  they 
had  reached  the  edge  all  the  ladies  except  two  and  several 
of  the  gentlemen  recoiled  ;  and  it  was  only  by  degrees  and 
under  the  compelling  attraction  of  that  still  ascending  cry, 
that  some  of  those  remaining  could  force  themselves  to  the 
verge.  Those  who  reached  it  at  that  moment,  and  those  who 
closed  up  the  instant  after,  saw  enough  to  make  Blondin  and 
his  brother-fools  a  non-necessity  for  the  balance  of  their 
natural  lives  ;  and  the  cry  from  below  was  answered,  be  sure, 
by  a  cry  that  rang  from  every  voice  above  when  the  sad  spec- 
tacle met  the  eye. 

It  was  indeed  the  subject  of  their  past  fear  who  supplied 
their  present  horror ;  and  the  situation,  keeping  in  view 
previous  descriptions  of  the  locality,  may  be  briefly  conveyed. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  at  the  bend  or  elbow  of  the 
gulch,  some  thirty  feet  below,  two  fangs  of  the  root  of  a  tree 
stretched  out  partially  across  the  chasm,  the  upper  long  and 
at  some  distance  from  the  rock  of  thebottom,  the  other  shorter 
and  lying  very  near  it.  It  will  also  be  remembered  that 
beneath  both  the  schute  stretched  its  long  blue  jagged  line 
to  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  not  less  than  fifteen  hundred  or 
two  thousand  feet,  with  the  air  between  the  top  and  bottom 
looking  actually  blue  from  distance,— and  that  the  schute 
itself  was  so  nearly  perpendicular  that  while  any  object  falling 
down  it  would  probably  touch  it  all  the  way  from  top  to 
bottom,  it  would  go  down  almost  with  the  velocity  of  the 
lightning  and  be  rolled  and  pounded  to  a  mere  ball  before  it 
had  accomplished  half  of  the  descent. 

On  that  lower  fang  of  the  root  hung  the  Rambler — those 
who  had  seen  him  at  the  Crawford  recognized  him  at  once, 
at  that  short  distance  ;   and  it  was  indeed  from  that  throat 


410  THS      COWARD. 

SO  little  accustomed  to  call  for  assistance  from  any  mortal 
hand,  that  the  terrible  cries  of  agony  and  appeals  for  help 
were  ascending.  One  hand  grasped  the  root  near  the  end, 
without  being  able  to  go  nearly  round  it,  and  one  leg  was 
caught  round  the  root  farther  towards  the  tree,  with  the  bend 
at  the  knee  forming  a  kind  of  hook  so  long  as  it  could  retain 
its  tension.  The  other  arm  and  leg  hung  down,  with  the 
body,  below,  and  the  long  grizzled  hair  streamed  away  from 
the  head  that  depended  downward  in  the  direction  towards 
which  it  seemed  to  be  so  fatally  tending.  The  face  could  be 
seen,  as  that  was  turned  towards  the  cliff,  but  its  expression 
could  not  be  recognized  at  that  distance  and  in  the  reversed 
position  that  it  occupied.  All  that  could  be  known,  to  any 
certainty,  was  that  there  hung  a  human  being,  evidently 
unable  even  to  recover  a  safer  hold  upon  the  root,  screaming 
for  help  that  was  hopeless,  and  as  certain  to  make  the  last 
plunge  within  a  space  of  time  that  could  be  measured  by 
single  minutes,  or  perhaps  even  by  seconds,  as  the  sun  was 
certain  to  move  on  in  its  course  and  the  earth  to  retain  its  laws 
of  gravitation  I 

Was  there  not  cause,  indeed,  for  that  general  cry  of  pitying 
horror  from  above,  which  answered  the  cry  of  agony  and 
terror  from  below  ? 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Suspense  in  Danger,  in  two  Senses — Horace  Townsend 
WITH  A  New  Thought — The  use  of  a  Swing-rope — An 
Invitation  to  Captain  Hector  Coles — A  fearful  piece 
OF  Amateur  Gymnastics — Going  down  into  the  Schute 
. — Success  or  Failure  ? — The  Event,  and  Margaret 
Hayley's  Madness — Two  Unfortunate  Declarations. 

We  have   said    that   the   whole   body   of  the    pic-nickers 
rushed  up  to  the  edge  of  the  plateau,  and  that  all,  or  nearly 


THE      COWARD.  411 

all,  caught  glimpses  of  the  situation.     Then  came  that  cry, 
that  shutting  of  the  eyes  and  springing  back,  until  only  throe 
or  four,  of  whom  Horace   Townsend  was  one  and  Captain 
Hector  Coles  was  not  another,  remained  on  the  verge.     Mar- 
garet Hayley,  among  those  who  had  gazed  down  and  drawn 
back,  remained  a  few  feet  from  the  edge,  and  the  Captain  was 
either  so  careful  of  her  safety  or  so  anxious  to  furnish  himself 
with  an  excuse  for  remaining  no  nearer,  that  he  caught  her  by 
the  dress  and  retained  his  grip  as  if  she  had  been  some  bundle 
of  quartermaster's  goods  that  he  was  fearful  of  having  slip 
through    his    fingers  I     Frightened    inquiries    and    equally 
frightened  replies,  mingled  with  moans  and  sobs  and  wring- 
ings  of  female  hands,  went  round  the  circle  thus  scattered 
over  the  lower  part  of  the  plateau  ;  and  for  a  moment  those 
noises  made  the  still-ascending  cries  for  help  almost  inaudible. 
Horace  Townsend  stood  at  the  very  edge,  and  except  per- 
haps sharing  in  the   first  cry,  he  had  not  uttered  one  word. 
He  no  doubt  understood,  intuitively,  like  the  rest,  that  the 
poor  man  must  have  been  attempting  the  mad  descent,  when 
the  undergrowth  by  which  he  held  fast  gave  way  in  his 
hands,  or  some  stone  caved  out  beneath  him,  sending  him 
headlong  downward  for  a  plunge  of  two  thousand  feet,  from 
which  he  had  only  been  temporarily  stopped  by  striking  and 
gripping  the  root  of  the  tree  as  he  fell.     Beyond  this,  and 
with  reference  to  any  possibility  of  saving  the  perilled  man, 
he  was   probably  quite  as  much   in  the  dark  as  any  of  the 
others.     He  stood  half  bent,  his  dusky  cheek  pale  and  his 
face  strangely  contorted,  his  hands  clasped  low  as  if  wring- 
ing themselves  surreptitiously,  and  the  eyes  beneath  his  bent 
brow  looking  into  the  gulf  as  if  he  was  trying  to  peer  down- 
ward into  the  eternal  mystery  which  that  man  was  so  soon 
to  fathom. 

Suddenly  his  face  lighted.  ''  Hush  !  I  must  speak  to  that 
man  !"  he  said,  in  a  low  but  intense  voice,  and  the  behest 
was  obeyed  so  quickly  that  almost  total  silence  fell  upon  the 
top  of  the  plateau. 


412  THE      COWARD. 

"  Hallo,  below  there  !"  he  cried,  as  the  call  of  agonj  ceased 
for  an  instaut. 

"  Uelp  !  help  !  oh  help  !"  came  back  from  below. 

"  Do  you  understand  what  I  say  ?"  again  he  called. 

**  Yes  ! — help  !  help  !"  came  feebly  back. 

"  Get  that  rope  from  the  foot  of  the  swing  there,  quick, 
some  of  you  !"  he  cried,  and  his  voice  seemed  for  the  time  to 
clear  from  its  hoarseness  and  ring  like  a  trumpet.  "  Quick  ' 
— cut  it  away  at  the  bottom  and  bring  it  all  here  !" 

Half  a  dozen  of  the  young  men  and  one  or  two  of  the 
ladies,  delighted  to  aid  in  any  hope  of  saving  the  perilled 
man  (for  the  most  thoughtless  of  us  are  naturally,  after  all, 
kind  and  averse  to  death  and  suffering),  sprung  for  the  rope. 
Two  of  them  reached  the  foot  of  the  swing  ahead  of  the  others, 
the  pocket-knife  of  one  was  out  in  an  instant,  and  in  another 
UDoment  they  came  up  dragging  nearly  or  quite  an  hundred 
feet  of  strong  inch  rope. 

"We  have  a  rope  here  that  will  hold  you  :  can  you  catch 
it  and  hold  on  or  tie  it  around  your  body  ?"  the  lawyer  called 
down  again. 

"  Xo  !" — the  pained  and  weakening  voice  came  back,  and 
then  they  all  knew  wiiat  had  reduced  that  athletic  and  iron- 
gripped  man  to  such  a  state  that  he  could  make  no  effort  to 
swing  himself  up  again.  He  spoke  brokenly  and  feebly,  but 
Horace  Townsend  and  some  of  the  others  caught  the  words  : 
"  I  can't  catch  the  rope — I  put  my  right  shoulder  out  of  joint 
as  I  fell — I  can't  hold  on  much  longer — I  shall  faint  with  this 
pain — oh,  can't  some  of  you  help  me  ?" 

Then  passed  over  the  countenance  of  Horace  Townsend 
one  of  those  sweeping  expressions  which  make  humanity 
something  more  or  less  than  human.  It  may  have  been  the 
god  stirring — it  may  have  been  the  demon.  No  one  saw  it — 
not  even  Margaret  Hayley  ;  for  when  he  turned  nothing  more 
was  to  be  seen  than  that  the  brow  was  very  dark,  and  that 
the  lips  were  set  grimly.  The  powers  looking  downward 
from  heaven  ou  the  falling  of  leaves  and  the  nesting  of  young 


T  H  S      COWARD.  41$ 

birds  may  have  remarked  tlie  whole  expression  and  set  it 
down  at  its  true  worth,  and  that  will  eventually  be  found 
quite  sufficient.  Before  he  turned  he  shouted,  much  louder 
and  more  authoritatively  than  he  had  spoken  before,  to  the 
man  han^^inj^  between  life  and  death  below  : 

"  Hold  on,  like  a  man  I  We  will  do  something  to  help 
you  !" 

Then  he  spoke  to  the  two  young  men,  one  of  whom  yet 
held  the  end  of  the  rope  : 

"  Tie  a  biy;  loop  in  that  rope,  quick — ten  or  a  dozen  feet 
from  the  end." 

They  proceeded  to  do  so,  with  not  unskilful  hands,  and  in 
that  instant  the  lawyer  approached  Captain  Hector  Coles, 
where  he  stood,  only  a  few  feet  off,  still  holding  the  dress  of 
Margaret  Hayley.  He  did  not 'appear  to  see  her  at  all,  but 
she  saw  him,  and  there  was  that  upon  his  face  which 
frightened  her  so  that  she  literally  gasped. 

"  Captain  Coles  !"  he  said,  "  do  you  know  what  you  said  of 
me  the  other  night  and  again  the  other  day  ?  There  is  a 
rope,  and  there  is  yet  a  chance  to  save  that  man.  Go  down, 
if  you  are  as  brave  as  you  boast,  and  save  him.  Do  you 
hear  me  ? — go  I" 

"  I  ?  Humph  !"  That  was  all  the  reply  that  the  Captain, 
half-stupefied,  could  make  to  what  he  believed  to  be  the  words 
of  a  madman. 

"Xo,  I  thought  not  I"  sneered  the  voice  through  the  hard 
lips.  With  the  words  coat  and  vest  were  thrown  ofif,  and  the 
tall,  slight,  athletic  form  was  developed  with  no  concealment 
but  the  shirt  and  the  closelyrgirt  trowsers.  The  shoes 
followed,  and  as  they  did  so  Margaret  Hayley  well  remem- 
bered where  and  when  she  had  before  seen  that  disrob- 
ing. She  had  grown  white  as  the  collar  and  cuffs  of  her 
gray  chambray ;  and  she  was  so  paralyzed  with  wonder, 
fear,  anxiety,  and  conflicting  thought,  that  she  could  not 
speak,  and  was  on  the  point  of  falling.  Yet  all  this  time 
Horace  Townsend  seemed  to  pay  her  no  more  attention  or 


414  THK      COWARD. 

observation  than  he  might  have  done  had  she  been  a  wooden 
post  or  a  stone  monument  erected  at  the  same  point  of  the 
plateau  ! 

]S"ot  sixty  seconds  had  elapsed  after  the  throwing  oflf  of  his 
outer  garments,  when  the  lawyer,  without  another  word  to 
any  one,  seized  the  rope,  looked  over  the  edge  to  see  that  the 
Rambler  was  still  hanging  to  his  thorn,  lowered  down  the 
line  until  the  loop  was  nearly  opposite  to  him,  then  carried 
up  the  other  end  and  with  the  volunteered  assistance  of  one 
of  the  young  men  firmly  secured  it  with  two  or  three  turns 
and  as  many  knots,  around  the  trunk  of  a  stout  sapling. 

All  saw  the  movement,  now,  and  all  began  to  understand 
it ;  but  oh,  with  what  redoubled  agitation  was  the  truth 
realized !  He  was  going  down  that  frail  rope,  and  into  what 
peril  !  The  rope  fastened,  he  stepped  forward  to  the  verge, 
while  a  murmur  ran  round  the  frightened  group,  even  coming 
from  the  lips  of  those  who  had  never  spoken  to  him  :  "  Oh, 
don't !"  Margaret  Hayley  was  no  longer  stone  :  she  cast 
one  glance  at  the  face  of  Captain  Hector  Coles,  saw  that  the 
expression  on  it  was  every  thing  rather  than  fear  or  anxiety, 
then  jerked  away  her  dress  from  his  hand  and  darted  forward. 

<' ]S"o — do  not  go!"  she  said,  grasping  the  lawyer  by  the 
arm  on  the  very  verge. 

"  I  must!"    Then  for  the  first  time  he  appeared  to  see  her. 

*'  No  1     If  I  bid  you  stay  for  my  sake,  will  you  do  it  ?" 

"  For  your  sake,  Margaret  Hayley,  I  would  go  all  the 
quicker.     Stand  back,  for  God's  sake  ! — you  may  fall  1" 

She  said  no  other  word.  Captain  Hector  Coles  sprang 
forward  and  grasped  her  arm  to  draw  her  back.  She  jerked 
it  away,  almost  angrily,  and  never  stirred  so  far  from  the  edge 
as  to  prevent  her  looking  down  the  schute.  Half  a  dozen  of 
the  others,  all  gentlemen,  had  taken  the  same  risk  of  crowding 
to  the  edge,  their  very  breath  held  ;  but  none  of  them  would 
any  more  have  thought,  just  then,  of  offering  to  aid  her,  than 
of  tendering  the  same  support  to  one  of  the  rooted  saplings 
on  the  cliff.     It  was  a  fearful  moment,  but  not  the  weakest 


THE      COWARD.  415 

heart  on  that  plateau  beat  within  the  bosom  of  the  white- 
handed  Philadelphia  girl  1 

Horace  Townsend  threw  himself  down  on  his  face  as  he 
reached  the  edge,  grasped  the  rope  and  crawled  over  back- 
wards in  that  way,  descending  it  hand-over-hand.  Those  too 
far  back  from  the  edge  to  see,  heard  him  call  out  to  the  man 
below  as  he  disappeared  from  sight :  "  Uold  fast  like  a  man  ! 
I  am  coming  1"  Then  they  saw  no  more,  and  for  the  moment 
heard  no  more. 

Those  who  stood  on  the  verge,  and  Margaret  Hayley 
among  them— saw  the  adventurous  lawyer  descend  the  rope 
with  slow  and  steady  care  but  evident  labor,  until  he  reached 
the  loop  opposite  and  nearly  under 'the  suspended  man. 
Then  they  saw  him  weave  his  right  arm  into  the  loop  until 
the  strands  of  rope  seemed  to  go  around  it  three  or  four  times, 
throw  down  his  feet  to  the  rock  so  as  to  raise  his  shoulders 
away  from  it,  and  commence  gathering  in  the  loose  rope  be- 
low with  his  left.  Directly  he  seemed  to  have  the  end  in  his 
hand,  and  they  saw  him  stretch  the  left  arm  as  if  to  throw  it 
around  the  body  of  the  perilled  man.  At  that  moment  they 
saw,  with  a  horror  that  words  can  make  no  attempt  at 
describing,  that  the  hand  of  the  Rambler  which  had  held  the 
end  of  the  root  gave  way  and  the  body  swung  to  a  perpen- 
dicular, head  downward,  only  suspended  by  the  hook  formed 
of  the  leg.  All,  except  one— that  one— closed  their  eyes, 
confident  that  the  leg  too  must  give  way  and  the  poor  climber 
plunge  headlong,  perhaps  bearing  down  the  would-be  rescuer 
with  him.  But  no  ! — still  the  body  remained  in  that  position 
for  a  moment,  and  in  that  moment  they  saw  that  the  rope 
passed  around  it  and  the  hand  of  the  lawyer  made  an  attempt, 
the  success  of  which  could  not  be  seen,  to  tie  the  rope  into  a 
knot  about  the  waist.  But  even  at  that  instant  the  tension 
of  the  stiffened  leg  gave  way  and  they  saw  the  body  plunge 
downwards,  head  first ;  ichere,  was  too  sickening  a  horror  to 
conjecture. 

Ko  one  saw  any  more—not  even  Margaret  Hayley.     With 


416  THE      COWARD. 

one  wild  cry  she  sprang  back  from  the  verge  and  tottered 
half  fainting  but  still  erect,  into  the  arms  of  some  of  the  other 
ladies  who  had  been  watching  the  whole  scene  through  her. 

Perfect  silence — the  silence  of  untold  terror  and  dread. 
Their  own  eyes  had  seen  the  Rambler  plunge  headh^ng 
towards  the  realization  of  that  fearful  last  wish  :  what  hope 
was  there  that  the  other,  entangled  with  him,  had  not  accom- 
panied him  ?  It  must  be  said  that  for  the  moment  no  one 
dared  look  over  the  edge  again,  and  that  no  one  dared,  during 
the  same  time,  to  test,  by  feeling  the  rope,  whether  any  weight 
still  remained  at  the  end  of  it !  The  cast-oflf  coat,  vest,  bat 
and  shoes  of  the  lawyer  assumed  the  look  of  dead-men's 
clothes  unseasonably  exhibited  ;  and  each  even  looked  upon 
the  other  with  horror  because  a  spectator  of  the  same  catas- 
trophe. What  must  have  been  the  feelings  of  Margaret 
Hayley,  if,  as  we  have  had  reason  to  believe,  her  first  love 
had  faltered  in  favor  of  a  new  ideal  ?  What  those  of  Captain 
Hector  Coles  when  he  believed  that  a  disgusting  and  auda- 
cious rivalry  had  been  removed  at  least  two  thousand  feet"} 

All  this  found  relief  when  it  had  lasted  about  ten  ages — in 
other  figures,  about  two  minutes  and  thirty  seconds  1  The 
rope  was  seen  to  tremble  at  the  edge,  and  two  or  three  of  the 
men  gathered  strength  to  dart  forward.  A  head  came  up 
above  the  level,  and  a  faint  voice  said  : 

"  Give  me  a  hand,  here  !" 

A  hand  was  given,  and  in  one  instant  more  the  lawyer  was 
dragged  up  upon  the  plateau  and  staggered  to  his  feet.  He 
was  bathed  in  sweat,  trembled  fearfully,  and  his  clothes  were 
torn  in  many  places.  Personally  he  had  received  no  injury, 
except  that  some  hard  object  (perhaps  one  of  the  snags  of  the 
root)  had  struck  him  near  the  left  temple  and  ploughed  its 
way  in  such  a  manner  that  the  wound  would  probably  leave 
a  scar  there  during  life,  more  than  half  way  across  the  fore- 
head and  up  into  the  roots  of  the  hair.  Even  this  was  shallow 
and  the  few  drops  of  blood  flowing  from  it  were  already  dried, 
80  that  probably  the  receiver  had  never  been  aware  of  the 


THE      COWARD.  417 

blow  or  its  effect.     Most  of  those  things  were  seen  afterwards 

they  were  certainly  not  seen  with  this  particularity  at  the 

time,  for  not  one  of  the  persons  on  the  plateau,  from  Captain 
Hector  Coles  to  the  least  interested  of  the  company,  saw  any 
thing:  else  than  the  proud  face  of  Margaret  Ilayley  radiant  with 
humility,  and  her  tall  form  cowering  down  as  if  to  make  itself 
humbler  and  less  noticeable,  as  she  dropped  on  her  knees 
before  the  lawyer — yes,  dropped  on  her  knees  ! — took  one 
of  the  quivering  hands  in  both  her  own  dainty  white  ones, 
covered  it  with  kisses  that  some  others  would  have  been  glad 
to  purchase  for  hand  or  lip  by  mortgaging  a  soul,  and  literally 
sobbed  out : 

"  God  bless  and  reward  you  ! — you  noblest  and  strangest 
man  in  the  world  1" 
-     It  was  a  singular  position  for  a  proud  and  beautiful  woman 

was  it  not  ? — especially  towards  a  man  whose  words  had 

never  given  her  any  right  to  make  so  complete  a  surrender  of 
her  womanly  reticence  and  dignity  ?  Captain  Hector  Coles 
thought  so,  for  he  could  restrain  himself  no  longer  but  stepped 
to  her,  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  and  spoke  in  her  ear : 

"  For  shame,  Margaret  Hayley  !" 

Perhaps  no  one  else  heard  the  words  :  she  heard  them,  for 
she  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  and  the  one  word  which  she 
returned,  in  the  very  ear  of  the  Captain  and  certainly  unheard 
by  any  other,  made  him  start  back  and  redden  like  one  of  the 
traditional  furies.  He  said  no  more,  but  stood  sullen  as  silent. 
Whether  Horace  Townsend  had  not  heard  the  flattering  lan- 
guage addressed  to  him,  or  whether  he  had  not  yet  recovered 
himself  sufficiently  from  his  late  exertion  to  attempt  reply,  he 
made  none,  but  seemed  confused  and  unnerved.  He  did  not 
recover  until  some  one  near  him  said  : 

"  Poor  fellow  ! — you  lost  him  after  all !" 

"  Lost  him  ?  no  !"  said  the  lawyer,  arousing  himself.     "  I 
forgot!     He  is  insensible  but  not  fatally  injured.     Pray  pull 
up  the  rope,  gently,  for  I  believe  that  I  am  too  weak  to  render 
you  any  assistance." 
20 


418  THE      COWARD. 

"  What  I"  cried  two  or  three  voices  in  a  breath,  and  more 
than  as  many  hands  seized  the  rope.  It  waB  drawn  tight — 
there  was  something  yet  remaining  below.  As  the  knowledge 
spread  among  the  company  and  they  began  to  pull  on  the 
rope,  such  an  involuntary  cheer  burst  from  nearly  all  their 
throats^ male  and  female,  as  might  have  roused  a  man  moder- 
ately insensible.  But  they  produced  no  effect  on  the  dead 
weight  at  the  end  of  the  line  ;  and  it  was  only  after  more  than 
five  minutes  of  severe  but  careful  pulling,  with  every  breath 
waiting  in  hushed  expectation  lest  some  sharp  angle  of  the 
rock  might  at  last  cut  off  or  weaken  the  rope,  that  a  dark 
mass  came  up  to  the  edge  and  the  insensible  form  of  the 
Rambler  was  landed  upon  the  plateau  by  the  hands  that 
grasped  it. 

He  might  have  been  dead,  for  all  that  could  be  judged, 
though  there  was  really  no  reason  to  believe  that  he  should 
have  expired  from  any  cause  except  fright.  But  he  presented 
a  most  pitiful  spectacle — his  clothes  fearfully  torn  by  abrasion 
against  the  rocks  in  drawing  up,  the  right  arm  hanging  loosely 
from  the  shoulder,  the  ej^es  closed  and  teeth  set  as  in  a  fatal 
spasm,  and  the  iron-gray  hair  and  straggling  beard  matted 
with  blood  yet  flowing  from  a  severe  wound  in  the  head  that 
he  had  received  either  in  falling  against  the  rock  from  the 
root  or  in  the  perilous  passage  upward.  There  was  no  in- 
dication of  breath,  but  he  was  alive,  for  the  pulse  had  not 
stopped  its  slow  movement,  and  there  was  at  least  a  chance 
that  he  could  be  recovered. 

But  even  then,  and  while  two  or  three  were  hurrying  to  the 
table  for  water  to  use  in  bringing  back  the  flitting  life  and 
some  of  the  cloths  to  use  as  a  stretcher  in  bearing  the  body 
to  one  of  the  wagons, — even  then  the  general  attention  was 
for  the  moment  withdrawn.  For  just  as  the  poor  Rambler 
was  fairly  landed  and  the  company  gathering  around  him, 
while  Margaret  Hayley  was  yet  standing  close  to  Horace 
Townsend,  with  her  eyes  still  reading  that  face  which  seemed 
to  be  a  perpetual  puzzle  to  her, — the  brown  cheek  grew  sud- 


THE      COWAKD.  419 

dcnly  of  a  ghastly  white,  the  whole  frame  trembled  as  if  from 
the  coming  of  a  spasm,  and  the  lawyer  fell  heavily  forward, 
A'ithout  a  sign  of  sensation,  just  as  he  had  done  in  the  previous 
instance  after  rash  exposure  and  severe  exertion,  at  the  Pool. 
Now,  as  then,  reaction  seemed  to  come  with  terrible  force, 
unnerving  the  system  and  literally  overmastering  life. 

As  was  to  be  expected  under  such  circumstances,  the  ex- 
citement among  the  pic-nickers  redoubled  when  they  had  two 
insensible  people  instead  of  one,  and  one  of  the  two  the  hero  of 
so  strange  an  adventure  as  that  which  has  just  been  recorded, 
to  look  after  and  bring  back  to  life.     Exclamations  :   "He  is 
dying  !"     "He  is  dead  !"     "  He  has  fointed  from  over-exer- 
tion !"     "  How  dreadful  !"  and  half  a  dozen  others  ran  round 
the  circle.     But  Margaret  Hayley  did  not  hear  or  did  not  heed 
them.     She  was  again  upon  her  knees,  for  a  very  different 
purpose  from  that  which  had  thus  bowed  her  the,  moment 
before — lifting  the  head  of  matted  hair  upon  her  lap,  chafing 
the  stiffened  hands,  and  uttering  words  that  seemed  to  have 
no  regard  to  the  delicacy  of  her  position  or  the  hearing  of 
the  by-standers.     Such  words  of  unmistakable  anxiety  and 
fondness  the  insensible  man  'might  have  been  willing  to  peril 
another  life  to  hear ;   and  they  were  uttered,  let  it  be  remem- 
bered, when  she,  however  the  others  may  have  been  alarmed, 
had  no  idea  that  he  was  dying  or  in  danger,  and  more  as  if 
she  wished  to  pour  out  a  great  truth  of  her  nature  and  be 
relieved  of  its  weight,  than  with  any  other  apparent  thought 
in  view.     Oh,  that  ideal  I     Oh,  love  of  woman,  a  moment 
checked  in  its  first  course,  to  break  away  again  from  all  bounds 
and  more  than  redouble  its  early  madness  I    Oh,  overweening 
l)ride  of  Margaret  Hayley,  that  once  had  been  her  most  marked 
characteristic,  now  cast  away  like  a  thing  to  be  loathed  and 
repr<>])ated  !     Oh,  prophet  words,  spoken  by  the  sorrowing 
girl  but  a  few  hours   after  the  bereavement  of  her  life,  now 
?eem'Ing  to  be  so  strangely  fulfilled  !     Second  love,  and  an  aban- 
donment that  even  the  first  had  scarcely  known,  before  two 


420  THE      COWARD. 

months  of  summer  had  made  the  grass  green  on  the  grave  of 
the  first !     To  what  was  all  this  tending  ? 

Captain  Hector  Coles  saw,  and  writhed.  His  face  was 
dark  enough  with  passion  to  indicate  that  had  no  troublesobie 
people  and  no  restraining  law  stood  in  his  path,  he  would 
have  rolled  that  insensible  form  over  the  edge  of  the  plateau, 
with  no  rope  to  impede  its  progress,  and  watched  with  heart- 
felt delight  the  bumping  of  the  body  from  crag  to  crag  until 
it  was  crushed  out  of  all  semblance  of  humanity  at  the  bottom  I 
But  he  said  not  one  word,  nor  did  he  again  attempt  to  inter- 
fere in  the  movements  of  Margaret. 

Only  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  the  eyes  of  the  lawyer 
opened.  He  saw  the  face  that  was  looking  down  into  his 
own  ;  and  though  many  a  man  would  have  pretended  weak- 
ness and  insensibility  a  little  longer,  to  keep  such  a  position, 
he  made  an  instant  movement  to  rise  and  struggled  to  his 
feet  with  but  slight  assistance.  Then  the  young  girl  fell  back 
into  the  group  of  other  ladies,  her  duty  and  her  paroxysm  of 
feeling  both  apparently  over,  and  scarcely  aware  how  much 
or  how  little  the  subject  of  her  interest  knew  of  her  words  or 
her  actions.  Nor  was  it  sure  whether  the  lawyer  saw,  as  he 
staggered  up  from  the  g;round,  the  expression  which  rested 
on  the  face  of  Captain  Coles.  Time  had  its  task  of  solving 
both  these  important  problems. 

But  a  few  minutes  after  Horace  Townsend's  recovery  had 
elapsed,  when  the  body  of  the  Rambler,  showing  yet,  after 
every  application,  but  faint  signs  of  life,  was  carefully  con- 
veyed on  an  impromptu  stretcher  to  one  of  the  wagons — the 
frnLi,-nients  of  the  dinner,  untasted  except  as  some  few  of  those 
who  would  have  banqueted  in  a  death-room  had  snatched 
little  bits  in  the  midst  of  the  excitement,  gathered  up  and 
huddled  together  in  the  baggage-wagon — the  whole  party 
more  or  less  comfortably  disposed  in  the  conveyances,  and 
all  hurrying  back  to  the  Crawford  with  what  speed  they 
might.  "We  say  "hurrying",  advisedly.  It  might  have  been 
natural  enough  that  they  should  hurry  down,  to  afford  more 


THE      COWARD.  421 

effectual  relief  to  the  wounded  and  tortured  man  ;  but  let  not 
humanity  "  lay  the  flatterinf^  unction  to  its  soul"  that  they 
lacked  another  and  a  more  compelling  motive  !  Such  a  story 
as  that  which  could  be  woven  of  the  events  of  that  day,  hnd 
probably  never  been  told  as  of  a  late  actual  occurrence,  inside 
the  walls  of  that  hostelrie,  within  the  memory  of  man ;  and 
nearly  every  one,  male  and  female,  was  a  little  more  anxious 
to  indulge  in  the  relation  as  soon  as  possible,  and  to  his  or 
her  own  particular  set  of  intimates,  than  even  to  succor  life  or 
alleviate  suffering  I  Wonder  not  that  newspapers  are  popular 
in  the  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century :  man  himself  is 
but  a  newspaper  incarnated  ;  and  a  few  friends  are  not  ill- 
sacrificed,  much  less  perilled  without  advantage,  when  the 
catastrophe  affords  us  plenty  of  the  cheap  heroism  of  the 
looker-on  and  narrator ! 


The  providences  are  equally  strange  that  give  opportunity 
for  the  great  blunders  and  absorbing  agonies  of  life,  with 
those  that  afford  space  to  its  triumphant  successes  and  its 
crowning  pleasures.  Rooms  are  empty  or  ears  are  deaf,  some- 
times, that  we  maybe  made  deliriously  happy ;  but  they  may 
have  an  equally  assured  mission  to  make  us  wretched  beyond 
hope.  Three  days  before,  a  parlor  unoccupied  except  by 
themselves  had  afforded  Horace  Townsend  and  Margaret 
Hayley  an  opportunity  of  saying  words  that  seemed  to  make 
each  a  new  being  to  the  other,  and  that  awakened  hopes  as 
wild  and  maddening  as  the  dreams  of  opium  could  have  origi- 
nated. One  laggard  servant-girl  with  her  dusting-brush,  or 
one  dawdling  visitor  lingering  in  the  way,  might  have  pre- 
vented all  this  and  kept  them  on  the  distant  footing  they  had 
before  occupied.  One  person  more,  strolling  down  the  glen 
below  the  Crawford  at  eleven  o'clock  on  the  morning  follow- 
ing the  events  on  the  top  of  Mount  Willard,  might  have  pre- 
vented— what?  Nothing,  perhaps  !  Are  not  all  these  things 
ordered  for  us  ?  And  must  not  the  event,  debarred  in  one 
channel,  have  found  inevitable  way  in  another  ?     The  fatalists, 


422  THE      COWARD. 

who  believe  in  a  Deity  of  infinitesimal  and  innumerable  prov- 
idences, say  "Yes !"  and  argue  that  the  ripping  away  of  a 
boot-sole  OF  the  scorching  of  the  cook's  short-cake  come 
within  the  category.  The  people  of  unswayed  free-will,  who 
worship  a  Deity  not  over  particular  as  to  the  every-day  habits 
of  his  creatures,  say  "No!"'  and  see  nothing  providential  in 
any  event  less  important  than  the  breaking  out  of  a  pestilence 
or  the  downfall  of  a  nation.  At  which  point  it  may  be  neces- 
sary to  discover  what  connection  all  this  has  with  the  fortunes 
of  two  of  tlie  people  most  prominent  in  this  narration. 

At  about  the  hour  named,  that  morning,  Horace  Townsend 
strolled  alone  down  the  glen,  towards  the  Willey  House. 
Great  excitements  are  always  followed  by  corresponding  reac- 
tion ;  and  the  visitors  at  the  Crawford,  after  the  departure  of 
a  few  gone  up  the  great  mountain,  had  not  made  a  single  col- 
lective arrangement  to  occupy  the  day.  Each  was  thrown 
upon  personal  resources  ;  and  the  resource  of  the  lawyer  was 
setting  out  upon  a  long  and  lonely  morning  walk,  his  legs 
being  the  chief  actors  therein,  while  his  mind,  to  judge  by 
the  bent  head  and  the  slow  step,  was  taking  its  own  peculiar 
and  much  longer  journey. 

Suddenly  he  lifted  his  head  and  came  to  a  full  stop.  He 
was  not  alone,  after  all !  Half  a  mile  below  the  house,  beside 
the  road  and  under  the  edge  of  a  thick  clump  of  woods,  lay 
the  trunk  of  a  huge  tree,  some  of  the  higher  branches  yet  re- 
maining unshorn,  though  trimmed  by  the  axe.  On  the  point 
of  one  of  these  branches,  very  easily  ascended  by  the  stair- 
way of  knots  below^,  some  eight  or  ten  feet  from  the  ground, 
rested  a  neat  foot,  while  the  owner  of  the  figure  above  it, 
dressed  in  a  light  robe  which  floated  around  her  with  almost 
the  softness  of  a  cloud,  had  thrown  off  her  jockey-hat  (the  ob- 
ject first  attracting  the  notice  of  the  lawyer)  on  the  ground 
below,  and  was  stretching  up  at  full  length  to  pluck  a  cluster 
of  the  great  creamy  blossoms  of  the  wild  northern  magnolia, 
starring  the  green  leaves  around  it,  which  had  beckoned  her 
from  the  path. 


THE      COWARD.  423 

Does  the  reader  remember  where  it  was  that  the  first 
glimpse  was  caught  of  Margaret  Hayley — standing  on  the 
piazza  of  the  house  at  West  Philadelphia,  with  one  arm  of 
Elsie  Brand  around  her  waist,  but  both  her  own  hands  em- 
ployed in  the  attempt  to  force  open  a  blush  rose  that  had  as 
yet  but  half  blown  from  the  bud  ?  Roses  then — the  wild 
magnolia  now  :  would  the  dainty  white  hand  that  had  been 
so  tenderly  cruel  to  the  flower-spirit  two  months  before,  only 
gather  the  blossom  to  pluck  away  its  shreds  one  by  one  and 
scatter  them  listlessly  on  the  ground  as  she  walked  ?  Or  had 
those  two  months  taught  her  something  of  the  meaning  of 
that  word  "suffering,"  unknown  before,  and  ripened  and  soft- 
ened the  proud  nature  that  possibly  needed  such  training  ? 

The  lawyer  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment,  doubtful  whether 
the  lady  would  be  pleased  by  his  having  discovered  her  in  that 
somewhat  girlish  situation.  Then  he  remembered  some  duty 
or  feeling  which  seemed  of  more  consequence  than  a  mere 
momentary  embarrassment,  and  came  close  to  the  log  upon 
which  she  was  standing,  before  she  was  aware  of  his  presence. 

"  Shall  I  help  you  down.  Miss  Hayley  ?" 

The  words  were  simple,  and  they  did  not  seem  to  demand 
that  trembling  of  tone  which  really  accompanied  them.  Neither 
did  there  appear  to  be  any  occasion  for  the  flush  of  red  blood 
which  ran  all  over  cheek  and  brow  of  Margaret  Hayley  in  the 
moment  of  her  first  surprise.  But  the  flush  was  gone  before 
she  had  cast  that  inevitable  look  downward,  which  woman- 
hood can  never  forget  when  caught  playing  the  Amazon 
however  slightly, — stepped  lightly  down  the  stairway  of 
knots  to  the  trunk  and  held  out  her  hand  to  accept  the  offer. 

"  See  what  a  beautiful  cluster  of  my  favorites  !"  she  said. 

"Beautiful  indeed  1"  The  lawyer  was  looking  intently  at 
the  blossoms  or  at  the  hand  which  held  them — no  matter 
which.  The  lady  seemed  to  have  some  impression  of  tiio 
latter,  for  she  flushed  again  a  little  and  drew  back  both  hands 
and  flowers. 

"And  you  are  walking  already  again  this  morning  ?"  she 


424  THE      COWARD. 

said,  after  a  moment  of  silence  which  her  companion  did  not 
seem  disposed  to  break. 

"  Yes,"  absently. 

"Already  quite  recovered  from  yesterday  ?"  Margaret 
Hayley  was  treading  upon  dangerous  ground  :  did  she  know 
it? 

They  had  walked  on  together  down  the  road,  as  if  b}'  mu- 
tual consent.  The  lawyer  was  silent  again  for  a  time,  looking 
away,  and  when  he  again  turned  his  eyes  towards  her  there 
was  an  earnestness  in  their  glance  and  a  sad  seriousness  in 
the  whole  face  which  denoted  that  he  had  thought  much  and 
resolved  not  a  little  in  that  moment. 

"Recovered  from  yesterday?  From  the  slight  fatigue — 
yes  !     From  some  other  effects  of  the  day? — no  !" 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so."  The  words  dropped 
slowly  and  very  deliberately  from  her  lips,  and  her  head  had 
a  wavy  nod  as  she  spoke. 

"  You  are  sure  of  the  grounds  of  your  sorrow  ?" 

"  I  fear  so — yes  I" 

"  Then  I,  too,  have  cause  to  fear  !" 

Silence  again  for  a  moment,  and  they  walked  on,  very 
slowly.     Then  Horace  Townsend  spoke  again. 

"  You  are  going  away  to  the  Glen  House,  to-morrow  or  the 
next  day,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  I  believe  Captain  Coles  and  my  mother  have  so  arranged," 
was  the  reply. 

"And  I  am  going  southward  to  Winnipiseogee  to-morrow." 

"You  ?"  The  exclamation  was  abrupt  and  surprised,  as  if 
she  had  not  before  thought  of  a  separation  of  routes.  Horace 
Townsend  heard  the  word  and  recognized  the  tone  ;  and  what 
the  spark  is  to  the  magazine  was  that  sudden  monosyllable  to 
the  half-controlled  heart  of  the  man. 

"Margaret  Hayley,  we  separate  then  to-morrow,"  he  saiil. 
"  This  may  be  and  no  doubt  will  be  the  last  time  that  we  shall 
speak  together  without  listeners.  I  have  something  to  say 
that  must  be  spoken.     AVill  you  hear  me  ?" 


THE      C  O  ^V  A  K  I> .  425 

She  caught  him  suddenly  by  the  arm,  with  a  motion  like 
that  of  one  warning  or  checking  another  on  the  brink  of  a 
precipice — like  that  she  had  used  the  day  before  under  such 
very  different  circumstances, — and  said  : 

"  Oh,  do  not !— do  not  I" 

"What?" 

"  Do  not  say  words  that  must  separate  us  instead  of  bring- 
ing us  nearer  to  each  other  !" 

"And  would  that  grieve  you  ?" 

"  On  my  soul — yes  !" 

Another  spark  to  the  magazine.  It  exploded.  Horace 
Townsend  had  caught  Margaret  Hayley's  hand  and  his  eye 
literally  flashed  fire  into  hers,  while  his  brown  cheek  mantled 
with  the  blood  that  could  no  longer  be  restrained. 

"  I  must  speak,  Margaret  Hayley,  and  you  must  listen.  / 
love  you!  There  is  not  a  thought  in  my  mind,  not  a  hope  in 
my  soul,  that  is  not  yours.     Does  that  separate  us  ?" 

She  did  not  draw  away  her  hand,  and  yet  it  returned  no 
answering  pressure  to  his.  Her  head  was  bent  down  so  that 
he  could  not  see  her  face,  and  her  words  were  very  few  and 
very  sad  : 

"  I  am  sorry — very  sorry  !     Yes  !" 

"  Stop  !"  He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  forehead,  gently 
pushing  back  her  head  until  he  virtually  compelled  h'er  eyes 
to  come  up  to  the  level  of  his  own.  "  Margaret  Hayley,  too 
little  may  be  said  as  well  as  too  much.  I  am  going  to  say 
what  perhaps  no  other  man  in  the  world  dare  say.  I  love 
you,  but  that  is  not  all.  I  cite  your  woman's  heart  and  your 
immortal  soul  this  moment  before  the  sight  of  that  God  whose 
eye  is  looking  down  upon  us  in  this  sunshine,  and  I  say  that 
you  love  me!  You  may  never  forgive  me  the  word,  but  you 
must  tell  me  the  truth  !     Do  you  deny  it  ?" 

"  Xo  !"  The  word  was  louder  and  clearer  than  any  that 
she  had  spoken— louder  and  clearer  than  any  that  had  been 
spoken  during  the  interview.  And  yet  it  was  not  a  lover's 
response. 


426  THE      COWARD. 

"  You  admit  this,  and  yet  you  say  that  my  opening  my 
heart  to  you  separates  us  instead  of  drawing  us  together. 
Three  days  ago  you  told  me  that — that  man" — he  did  pot 
mention  the  name  of  Captain  Hector  Coles,  nor  did  there 
seem  to  be  any  occasion — "was  not  and  never  could  be  your 
betrothed  husband.  What  tie  binds  you  ?  What  am  I  to 
fear?     What  am  I  to  think  ?" 

"  Think  that  what  I  say  is  true,  Horace  Townsend — that  I 
love  you,  and  yet  that  I  do  not  love  j^ou — that  your  company 
is  dearer  to  me,  to-day,  than  that  of  any  person  on  earth — 
that  I  respect  you  in  every  regard  and  hold  you  as  one  of  the 
bravest  and  noblest  of  men — and  yet  that  every  word  of  love 
you  utter  makes  it  more  evident  that  we  must  not  meet  again,* 
and  so  separates  us  forever  !" 

*'  What  is  this  riddle  ?"  He  asked  the  question  in  a  tone 
of  great  anxiety,  and  he  did  not  take  away  his  eyes  from  the 
proud  orbs  that  no  longer  sunk  before  them  as  he  made  the 
inquiry.  How  impossible  to  believe  that  the  man  who  had 
but  the  moment  before  cited  the  heart  and  soul  of  Margaret 
Hayley  before  the  very  eye  of  God  as  a  searcher  of  their 
entire  truth  and  candor,  could  himself  be  guilty  of  deception 
at  the  same  instant  I  And  yet  was  he  not  ?  Was  the  riddle 
really  so  obscure  to  him  as  he  pretended?  Was  the  very 
name  tinder  which  he  wooed  and  sought  to  win,  his  own  ?« 
Strange  questions — stranger  far  than  that  he  asked  ;  and  yet 
questions  that  must  be  asked  and  answ^ered  ! 

"Listen,  Horace  Townsend  !"  she  said  after  one  instant  of 
silence.  "  You  call  this  a  riddle,  and  you  force  me  to  read  it 
to  you.  I  wish  you  had  not  done  so,  but  I  have  no  choice. 
I  would  have  kept  you  as  a  friend — a  dear  friend,  but  you 
would  not  accept  the  place." 

**  Never — not  for  one  moment !"  he  broke  in,  as  if  through 
set  lips.  Her  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and  they  were  again 
walking  listlessly  on.  She  proceeded  without  any  reference 
to  his  interruption. 

"  I  have  too  many  words  to  say — words  that  pain  me  be- 


THE      CO  WARD.  427 

yond  measure ;  but  you  have  forced  me  to  them,  and  I  must 
finish,  even  if  you  think  me  mad  before  I  have  done.  1  do 
not  know  but  I  am  mad — every  thing  about  me  sometimes 
seems  to  be  so  unreal  and  mocking." 

Horace  Townsend  turned  at  that  moment  and  looked  her 
sidelong  in  the  face,  then  withdrew  his  glance  again  as  if 
satisfied,  and  she  went  on  : 

"  I  told  you  that  Captain  Hector  Coles  would  never  be 
nearer  to  me  than  he  is,  and  he  will  not.  I  hate  that  man, 
and  he  knows  it.     But  I  love  another  !^^ 

She  paused,  as  if  she  expected  some  outburst  at  this  declar- 
ation ;  but  no  outbui'st  came.  All  the  effect  it  produced  was 
a  quick  shudder  through  the  arm  that  sustained  her  hand.  ^ 

'*  I  love  another — do  you  hear  me  ?  I  who  say  that  I 
love  you,  say  that  I  love  another  !  For  more  than  a  year, 
before  the  last  two  months,  I  was  a  betrothed  bride,  and 
never  woman  loved  more  truly  than  I  the  man  who  filled  my 
whole  ideal  of  manly  beauty,  grace  and  goodness.  One  day, 
two  months  ago,  I  found  that  man  a  coward.  He  dared  not 
fight  for  his  native  land — not  even  for  his  native  State  when 
it  was  invaded.  We  parted — forever,  as  I  thought ;  forever, 
as  he  thinks,  no  doubt.  I  have  heard  that  he  has  gone  to 
another  land  :  no  matter,  he  has  left  me,  with  my  own  will. 
Then  I  came  to  the  mountains,  for  change  of  scene  and  for 
distraction,  I  met  you.  I  was  attracted  to  you  from  the 
first — I  have  grown  more  attracted  day  by  day,  until  I  shud- 
der to  think  that  I  love  you  I     Do  you  know  lohyV 

"  Because  my  affection  for  you  has  given  birth  to  some 
feeble  likeness  of  itself!"  was  the  response. 

"  No  !  The  confession  may  wound  your  vanity,  but  the 
truth  must  be  told.  Every  throb  of  my  heart  towards  you, 
Horace  Townsend,  has  been  caused  by  some  dim  resemblance 
of  your  face  to  the  man  I  once  loved,  and  something  in  your 
voice  that  came  to  me  like  a  faint  echo.  It  is  not  yoii  whom 
I  have  been  seeing  and  hearing,  but  the  man  who  was  hand- 
somer than  you,  your  superior  in  so  many  respects,  and  yet 


428  THE      COWAKD. 

your  inferior  in  that  one  which  makes  me  worship  you  almost 
as  a  god — your  sublime,  dauntless  courage  when  all  others 
quail.  Do  you  understand  me  now,  and  know  why  your 
words  should  never  have  been  spoken  ?" 

"  I  think  that  I  understand  you  !"  was  the  response,  but  a 
bitter  smile,  unseen  by  the  lady,  wreathed  the  moustachcd 
lip  as  he  spoke.  "And  that  other — he  will  come  back,  some 
day,  and  all  except  the  old  love  will  be  forgotten,  and  you 
will  marry  him,  of  course." 

"  Horace  Townsend,  you  do  not  quite  understand  me,  yet  I" 
she  said.  "  I  am  no  child,  to  be  trifled  with,  but  a  w^oman. 
I  loved  him,  better  than  my  own  soul,  but  I  cannot  continue 
to  love  when  I  cease  to  respect.  I  shall  never  marry,  while 
J  live,  unless  I  marry  the  man  to  whom  my  heart  was  first 
given.  I  thought  that  perhaps  I  might  find  a  new  ideal, 
some  day,  when  we  first  parted ;  but  I  know  better  now. 
You  have  taught  me  how^  nearly  the  vacant  place  can  be 
supplied,  and  yet  how  empty  all  is  when  the  one  bond  is 
wanting." 

"And  I  say,  again,  that  some  day  he  will  come  back,  and  you 
will  marry  him." 

"Never — if  he  comes  as  he  was  !"  was  the  reply.  "If 
Heaven  would  work  a  miracle  and  give  him  the  one  thing 
that  he  lacks — bravery  and  patriotism, — even  if  he  struck  but 
one  blow,  to  prove  that  he  was  no  coward  to  fly  before  the 
enemies  of  his  country, — I  would  go  barefoot  round  the  world 
to  find  him,  and  be  his  servant,  his  slave,  if  he  would  not  for- 
give the  past  and  make  me  his  wife  !" 

"With  the  last  words  she  had  broken  down  almost  entirely, 
and  as  she  ceased  she  burst  into  a  very  passion  of  tears  and 
sobs.  Where  was  the  overweening  pride  of  Margaret  Hay- 
ley  ?  Gone,  all  gone  ;  and  yet  she  clung  to  that  one  touch- 
stone— her  husband,  when  the  country  called  and  he  was  sub- 
jected to  the  trial,  must  prove  that  he  dared  be  patriot  and 
soldier,  or  her  lips  should  never  sper.k  that  sacred  name ! 

"  I  have  indeed  spoken  too  far,  and  it  is  better  that  we 


THE      COWARD. 


429 


should  not  meet  again,"  lie  said,  in  a  voice  quite  as  low  and 
almost  as  broken  as  her  own.  "  I  understand  you,  now  :  for- 
give me  if  I  have  caused  you  pain  in  making  the  discovery  ; 
and  good-bye  !" 

He  wrung  the  young  girl's  hand  almost  painfully  and  was 

turning  away. 

"  You  are  going  now  ?     Shall  I  not  see  you  again  ?"  she 

asked. 

"  No  matter— I  do  not  know— I  cannot  tell.  I  may  see 
you  at  the  house  before  I  leave.  If  not,  and  we  never  meet 
again,  God  bless  you,  Margaret  Hayley,  the  only  woman  I 
have  ever  loved  !" 

He  stooped  suddenly  and  kissed  her  hand,  then  turned, 
drew  his  hat  over  his  brow  and  walked  rapidly  up  the  road 
towards  the  Crawford.  Margaret,  oppressed  by  some  strange 
feeling,  could  not  speak.  She  could  only  look  back  and  catch 
a  last  glimpse  of  him  as  he  turned  a  bend  in  the  road  ;  then  sink 
her  face  in  her  hands  and  sob  aloud  as  if  she  had  buried  a 
second  love  not  less  dear  than  the  first. 

When  she  returned  to  the  house,  half  an  hour  after,  Horace 
Townsend  was  already  gone—flying  away  towards  Littleton 
with  four  horses.     Captain  Hector   Coles  was   in   a  better 
humor,  being  already  advised  of  the   fact,  than  he  had  ex- 
hibited at  any  time  during  the  previous  Week.     Mrs.  Burton 
Haylev,  when   his   going   away  was  mentioned,  made   some 
appropriate  remarks  on  the  rashness  of  any  person  exposing 
himself  as  the  young  man  had  done  the  day  before,  unless  he 
was   fully  prepared   for  death   and  judgment,  and   remarked 
that  she  was  rather  glad  that  so  wild  a  person  was  not  going 
over  to  the  Glen  with  them.     In  both  these  opinions  Captain 
Coles  fully  coincided.     Margaret  spoke  of  the  departure  as 
a  verv  matter-of-course  alfair  indeed,  and  did  not  even  see  the 
glance  by  which  the  gallant  Captain  intended  to  convey  his 
full  recollection  of  the  scene  on  the  top  of  Mount  Willard. 

Next  day  that  trio,  with  a  dozen  of  others,  went  on  to  the 
Glen  House  for  the  carriage-ascent  of  Mount  Washington. 


430  THE      COWARD. 

And  with  that  announcemoyt  and  a  single  scene  followin]^. 
concludes  the  somewhat  lonj[^  connection  held  bj  the  White 
Mountains,  their  scenery  and  summer  incidents,  with  the  for- 
tunes of  the  various  personages  figuring  prominently  in  this 
life-history. 

That  scene  was  a  vcr}-  brief  one  and  took  place  three  days 
after  the  departure  from  the  Crawford,  when  Margaret  Ilay- 
ley,  her  mother  and  Captain  Hector  Coles,  had  made  the 
ascent  of  Washington  from  the  Glen  House  by  carriage  and 
Btood  beside  the  High  Altar  that  has  before  been  mentioned. 
When  Mrs.  Burton  Hayle}^  was  signalizing  her  arrival  at  the 
top  by  repeating  certain  passages  from  the  big  book  on  the 
carved  stand,  which  she  seemed  to  have  an  idea  fitted  that 
elevated  point  in  her  summer  wanderings,  and  which  prob- 
ably might  have  done  so  if  she  had  quoted  them  with  any 
thing  approaching  to  correctness.  When  Margaret  Hayley, 
breathing  the  same  air  that  Horace  Townsend  had  breathed  a 
few  days  before,  and  aware  that  she  was  doing  so,  joined  to 
the  rapt  emotions  of  the  place  and  the  hour,  something  of  the 
sad  glory  of  human  love  and  grief,  stretching  out  her  mental 
hands  to  God  whose  awful  majesty  stood  before  her  and 
around  her  in  the  great  peak  lifting  itself  to  heaven,  and 
praying  that  out  of  'darkness  might  some  day  come  light,  as 
once  it  had  done  on  that  other  and  more  awful  peak  of  Sinai. 
When  Captain  Hector  Coles,  above  all  such  considerations 
and  with  a  keen  eye  to  his  personal  "main  chances",  fancied 
that  another  declaration  beside  the  High  Altar  on  Washing- 
ton would  not  only  be  a  "good  thing  to  do"  but  a  proceeding 
much  more  likely  to  meet  with  a  favorable  response  than  if 
ventured  on  ground  of  less  altitude. 

Then  and  there,  accordingly.  Captain  Hector  Coles,  with 
Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  very  near  and  the  granite  rocks  still 
nearer,  possessed  himself  suddenly  of  Margaret  Hayley's 
white  hand,  drew  her  close  to  him,  and  murmured  : 

"  Oh,  how  long  I  have  waited  for  this  hour,  Margaret !     I 


THE      COWARD.  431 

love  you.  I  have  not  before  said  the  same  thing  in  words,  for 
along  time,  but  I  believe  that  you  must  have  seen  and  known 
how  tlie  old  afl'ection  has  still  lived  and  strengthened.  There 
have  been  bitter  words  between  us,  occasionally,  but  they 
have  not  affected  the  true  feeling  lying  beneath,  and — " 

"  Stop,  Hector  Coles  I"  said  Margaret,  before  he  had  con- 
cluded. **  You  say  that  there  have  been  bitter  words  between 
us  occasionally.  Now  let  me  warn  you  that  no  bitter  word  I 
have  ever  said  in  your  hearing,  has  been  any  thing  more  than 
a  baby's  w^hisper  to  what  I  ivill  say  if  you  ever  dare  to  allude 
to  this  subject  agaiu  I" 

"  But,  Margaret — " 

"Xo,  not  another  w^ord  I     Mother,  come  here  !" 

Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  obeyed. 

"  Mother,  is  it  with  your  wish  or  approbation  that  Captain 
Coles  has  just  made  me  another  offer  of  his  heart  ?" 

"  Certainly  it  is,"  the  Captain  commenced  to  answer. 

"  Stop  !  it  was  not  to  you  I  put  the  question,  but  to  my 
mother  I" 

''  Well,  my  daughter — I  certainly  did — that  is — I — " 

"  There,  you  hear  I"  said  Captain  Hector  Coles,  triumph- 
antly, and  confident  that  the  knowledge  of  such  a  maternal 
indorsement  must  work  in  his  favor. 

"You  did,  did  you  ?"  and  the  right  hand  of  Margaret  w^ent 
suddenly  inside  the  thick  shawl  that  wrapped  her  from  the 
winds  of  the  peak — and  unseen  by  the  Captain  a  locket — that 
fatal  locket — glittered  before  the  mother's  eyes.  "  Will  you 
promise,  and  keep  that  promise,  that  Captain  Hector  Coles 
shall  not  say  one  more  word  to,  me  of  love  or  marriage,  while 
we  remain  together  y  If  not,  as  God  sees  me  you  know  the 
consequences !" 

Mrs.  Burton  Hayley's  face  was  very  white  at  that  moment, 
but  the  next  she  said  :  "  Oh  yes,  I  promise  !"  and  then  with  a 
groan,  grasping  the  surprised  Captain  by  the  arm  :  "  Captain, 
if  you  do  not  wish  to  see  me  drop  dead,  leave  that  wild,  mad 
girl  to  herself  I     She  is  crazy,  but  /cannot  help  it !" 


432  THE      COWARD. 

Captain  Hector  Coles  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  in  added 
surprise,  but  found  no  explanation;  tlien  he  muttered  some- 
thing that  was  not  a  second  love-declaration ;  and  the  next 
moment  Margaret  Hayjey  stood  alone,  isolated  as  the  peak 
that  bore  her,  and  with  a  heart  almost  as  cold  in  the  dull 
leaden  weight  that  seemed  to  lie  within  her  bosom,  as  the 
storm-beaten  rocks  of  which  that  peak  was  composed. 

Thereafter  Captain  Hector  Coles  never  spoke  to  her  of  love 
again  ! 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


The  Bearer  op  a  Disgraced  Name,  ix  Exglaxd — A 
Strange  Quest  and  a  Strange  Unrest — Hurrying  over 
TO  Ireland — Too  Late  for  the  Packet — The  little 
Despatch-steamer — Henry  Fitzmaurtce,  the  Journalist 
— An  Unexpected  Passage — The  Peril  of  the  Emerald, 
and  the  end  of  all  quests  save  one. 

Far  back  in  the  progress  of  this  narration,  when  it  had 
only  reached  half  the  distance  to  which  it  has  now  arrived, 
it  was  said  of  one  of  the  principal  persons  therein  involved  : 
"Something  indescribably  dim  and  shadowy  grows  about  the 
character  and  action  of  Carlton  Brand  at  this  time,  *  *  =^  mo- 
tives become  buried  in  obscurity,  and  the  narrator  grows 
to  be  little  more  than  a  mere  insignificant,  powerless  chronicler 
of  events  without  connection  and  action  without  explanation." 
The  same  remark  will  apply  with  quite  as  much  force,  at 
this  stage,  to  the  movements  of  the  bearer  of  that  dishonored 
name,  in  his  movements  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic, 
which  must  now  be  briefly  recorded  in  their  due  order. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  American  entered  his  name 
at  Liverpool,  on  the  twentieth  day  of  July,  with  the  place 


THE      COWARD.  433 

of  his  residence  attached.     Thenceforward  enoiigli  is  known, 
through  hotel  and  other  records,  to  be  sure  that  he  spent 
some  two  weeks  in  London,  occupying   lodgings  at  one  of 
the    respectable  houses  of  the  great  metropolis,  but  spend- 
ing his  time,  in  other  regards,  in  a  manner  scarcely  to  have 
been  expected  from  any  previous  knowledge  of  his  life  and 
antecedents.     Was  it  the  lawyer,  became  the  lawyer,  who 
visited  Scotland  Yard  the  very  next  day  after  his  arrival  in 
London,  and  spent  so  much  time  with  some  of  the  leading 
men  in  charge  of  that   great    police-establishment,   that   he 
might  have  seemed  to  be  employed  in  studying  the  whole 
English  system  of  criminal  detection  ?    And  was  it  the  lawyer, 
as  the  lawyer  and  consequently  on   account  of  his  remem- 
brance of  past  connection  with  the  ferreting  out  of  crime  in 
his  native  land,  wiio  went  immediately  afterwards  into  a  con- 
tinuous and  apparently  systematic  round  of  visits  to  the  worst 
haunts  of  vice  in  the  Modern  Babel,  becoming,  sometimes  in 
disguise  and  sometimes  in  his  own  proper  person,  but  always 
more  or  less  closely  accompanied  by  some  member  of  the  forcp, 
the  habitue  of  streets   in  which   burglars  and  thieves  most 
congregated,  and  of  lanes  in  which  receivers  of  stolen  prop- 
erty,  forgers  and  all  disreputable  and  dangerous  characters 
were  known  to  have  their  places  of  business  or  their  dens  of 
hiding  ? 

Or  was  there,  leaving  the  profession  of  the  lawyer  out  of 
the  question,  something  in  the  peculiar  surroundings  of  this 
man— something  in  the  relations  of  character  and  connection 
which  he  had  allowed  to  grow  around  him,  unfitting  him  for 
other  amusements  and  researches  in  a  city  which  he  had 
never  before  visited,  and  one  supplying  such  marvellous 
temptations  to  the  sight-seer  and  the  antiquarian  ?  Or  was 
he  paying  the  penalty  of  the  past  in  an  unrest  which  left  him 
no  peace  except  he  found  it  in  continual  motion  and  in  the 
companionship  and  the  study  of  those  far  more  outlawed  by 
statute  but  not  more  in  social  position  than  himself  ?  Strange 
2T  •  • 


434  THE      COWARD. 

questions,  again,  and  questions  which  cannot  be  answered,  at 
this  time,  by  any  thing  more  than  the  mere  suggestion. 

Certain  it  is,  whatever  the  motive,  that  Westminster 
Abbey,  with  its  every  stone  sacred  to  the  memory  of  the 
great  dead,  seemed  to  present  no  attractions  to  him,  commen- 
surate with  those  of  Seven  Dials,  sacred  to  every  phase  of 
poverty  and  villany;  that  the  Houses  of  Parliament  were 
ignored  in  favor  of  St.  Giles  and  Bermondsey,  noted  for 
debates  of  a  very  different  character  from  those  heard  before 
the  occupant  of  the  Woolsack  and  the  Speaker  of  the  Com- 
mons ;  and  that  (this  seeming  so  peculiarly  strange  in  a  lawyer 
of  admitted  character  and  power)  even  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
rendering  one  of  those  decisions  calculated  to  affect  not  only 
the  laws  of  property  in  England  but  the  whole  legal  system 
wherever  the  English  language  was  spoken,  seemed  to  have 
far  less  attention  paid  to  him  or  his  dicta,  than  was  given  to 
some  gownless  libel  on  the  practice  of  criminal  law,  who  could 
point  out  the  habits  and  haunts  of  Burly  Bill,  the  noted 
burglar  whom  he  had  lately  saved  from  transportation  by 
proving  that  he  was  in  three  different  places  at  once,  and 
neither  of  them  the  spot  where  the  crime  was  committed, — 
or  Snivelling  Sail,  reputed  to  be  in  the  near  companionship 
of  the  most  successful  utterer  of  forged  notes  who  had  so  far 
escaped  the  clutches  of  the  detective  bVds  of  prey.  Xight 
and  day,  during  all  those  two  wrecks,  he  seemed  to  eat  hastily 
and  to  sleep  only  as  if  sleep  was  a  secondary  necessity  of 
nature,  to  be  thrown  overboard  wiienever  some  all-absorbing 
thought  should  make  continual  wakefulness  necessary. 

Then  the  fancy  (might  it  not  be  called  madness  ?)  seemed 
to  change.  He  had  either  exhausted  the  crime  of  London  or 
he  had  skimmed  that  compound  until  there  was  no  novelty 
of  rich  villany  remaining.  Without  having  examined  one 
work  of  art  or  one  antiquarian  curiosity  (so  far  as  could  be 
known),  and  certainly  without  having  made  one  effort  to  find 
a  footing  in  that  society  for  w^hich  education  and  past  associa- 
tions would  so  well  have  fitted  him, — he  flitted  away  from 


THE      COWARD.  435 

London  and  the  name  of  Carlton  Brand  was  to  bo  found  in- 
scribed on  the  books  of  one  of  the  leading  hotels  at  Manches- 
ter.    And  what  did  he  there  ?     Precisely  what  he  had  been 
doing   in   London,  it    appeared-^nothing   less   and    nothing 
more.     Alternately  in  conversation  with  one  of  the  detective 
force  or  with  some  one  of  the  wretches  whom  the  detective 
force  was  especially  commissioned  to  bring  to  justice— the 
Manchester  looms  (not  yet  all  stopped  by  the  dearth  of  cotton 
and   the   "  fratricidal  war"  in   America)   presented  no  more 
charm  to  him  than  had  been  afforded  by  the   high-toned  and 
rational  attractions  of  the  metropolis.     At  times  dressed  with 
what  seemed  a  studied  disregard  of  the  graces  of  person,  and 
scarcely   ever    so    arraying    himself    that   he   would    have 
dreamed  of  presenting  himself  in  such  a  guise  in  the  midst  of 
any  respectable  circle  at  home— two  or  three  days  ran  him 
through  the  criminal  life  of  Manchester.     Then  away  to  Bir- 
mingham, and  there— but  why  weary  with  repetition  when  a 
succeeding  fact  can   be  so  well   indicated    by  one   that  has 
preceded  it?     The    same   unsettled  and  apparently  aimless 
life_if  not  aimless,  certainly  with  tendencies  the  most  singu- 
lar and  unaccountable.     Thence  to  Bristol,  and  from  Bristol 
to  Liverpool.     From  Liverpool,  with  flying  haste  the  whole 
length  of  the  island  and  over  the  border  to  Edinburgh,  pav-^^ 
ing  no  more  attention,  apparently,  to  the  scenes  of  Scottish 
song  and  story  by  which  he  dashed,  than  might  have   been 
necessary  to  remember  the  cattle-rievers  and  free-booters  who 
had  long  before  furnished  pattern  for  his  late  associates,— 
and  seeing  in  the  old  closes  and  wynds  frowned  down  upon 
by  Calton  Hill  and  the  Castle,  only  retreats  in  which  robbers 
could   take  refuge  without  serious  risk  of  being  unearthed. 
Then,   strangely  enough,  away  southward   again   to   Dover, 
with  a   passage-ticket  for   Calais    taken  but  countermanded 
before  use,  indicating  that  Paris  had  been   in  view  but  that 
some  sudden  circumstance  had  made  a  change  in   the  all-the- 
while    inexplicable    calculation.     What    was    all    this — the 
question  arises  once  more — the  following  out  of  some  clue  on 


4S6  THE      COWARD. 

which  the  whole  welfare  of  a  life  was  believed  to  depend,  or 
Hierely  the  vague  and  purposeless  pursuit  of  some  melancholy 
fancy  furnishing  the  very  mockery  of  a  clue  through  that 
labyrinth  which  borders  the  realm  of  declared  madness  ? 

The  American  had  been  something  more  than  a  month  in 
England,  and  far  away  beyond  his  knowledge  all  the  events 
before  recorded  as  occurring  to  Margaret  Ilayley  and  her 
group  of  society  in  the  White  Mountains  had  already  taken 
place, — when  one  afternoon,  late  in  August,  the  train  that 
dashed  into  Holyhead  from  Birmingham  and  Chester,  by 
Anglesey  and  over  the  Menai,  bore  this  exemplification  of 
unrest  as  a  passenger.  Those  who  saw  him  emerge  from  the 
carriage  upon  the  platform  noticed  the  haste  with  which  he 
appeared  to  step  and  the  eagerness  of  his  inquiry  whether  the 
train,  which  had  been  slightly  delayed  by  an  accident,  was  yet 
in  time  for  the  boat  for  Dublin.  She  had  been  gone  for  more 
than  an  hour,  and  the  black  smoke  from  her  funnel  was  already 
fading  away  into  a  dim  wreath  driven  rapidly  northward  before 
the  sharp  south-easter  coming  up  the  Channel.  Night  was 
fast  falling,  with  indications  that  it  would  be  any  thing  rather 
than  a  quiet  one  on  that  wild  and  turbulent  bit  of  water  lying 
between  the  two  islands ;  and  some  of  the  old  Welsh  coast- 
men  who  yet  lingered  on  the  pier,  when  the}'  saw  the  impa- 
tient man  striding  up  and  down  and  uttering  imprecations  on 
the  delayed  train,  shrugged  their  shoulders  with  the  remark, 
which  he  di(inot  hear  or  did  not  choose  to  heed,  that  "ihey 
should  be  much  obliged  to  any  train  that  had  kept  them  from 
taking  a  rocking  in  that  cradle  the  night !" 

Brow  knit,  head  bent,  tread  nervous  and  almost  angry,  and 
manifesting  all  the  symptoms  of  anxiety  and  disappointment, 
the  American  traversed  the  wharf,  his  tall  form  guarded 
against  the  slight  chill  of  the  summer  evening  on  the  coast 
by  a  coarse  gray  cloak  which  he  drew  closely  around  him  as 
he  walked,  thus  adding  to  the  restless  stateliness  of  his  ap- 
pearance. At  one  of  his  turns  he  was  sufiBciently  disengaged 
to  see  a  man  of  middle  height,  dressed  in  a  somewhat  dashing 


THE      COWARD.  437 

civilian  costume,  standing  at  a  little  distance  up  the  pier  and 
conversing  with  two  or  three  of  the  coastmen.  One  of  the 
latter  was  pointing  towards  himself;  and  the  moment  after 
the  stranger  approached  with  a  bow.  He  was  a  young  man 
of  twenty-five  or  thereabouts,  side-whiskered  and  moustached, 
decidedly  good-looking,  with  quite  as  much  of  the  Irishman 
as  the  Englishman  in  his  face,  and  seemed  at  all  points  a  gen- 
tleman— more,  that  much  rarer  combination,  especially  on  the 
soil  of  the  mother  island,  a  frank,  clever  fellow  I 

"  They  tell  me,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "  that  you  were  one 
of  the  passengers  on  that  delayed  train,  and  that  you  manifest 
some  disappointment  at  missing  the  Dublin  boat." 

"  They  are  entirely  correct,  sir,"  answered  the  American, 
returning  the  bow.  "  I  was  very  anxious,  for  particular  rea- 
sons, to  be  in  Dublin  to-morrow  ;  and  in  fact  the  whole  object 
of  my  visiting  Ireland  at  all,  just  now,  may  very  probably  be 
defeated  by  the  accident  that  brought  in  the  traiu  that  half 
hour  too  late." 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  very  earnest  and  not  a  little  agitated. 
The  other  remarked  the  fact,  but  he  thought  himself  too  good 
a  judge  of  character  to  suspect,  as  some  other  persons  under 
similar  circumstances  might  have  done,  that  the  anxious  man 
was  a  hunted  member  of  the  swell-mob  or  a  criminal  of  some 
other  order,  who  thought  it  politic  to  get  off  English  soil  as 
soon  as  possible.  He  determined,  at  the  second  glance,  that 
he  had  to  do  with  a  gentleman,  and  proceeded  with  the  words 
that  he  had  evidently  intended  to  say  on  first  accosting  the 
delayed  passenger. 

"You  have  made  no  arrangements  for  getting  over,  I  sup- 
pose ?" 

*'  None,  whatever  !"  answered  the  American.  "  How  can 
I,  until  the  boat  of  to-morrow,  when — when  it  may  be  too 
late  altogether  for  my  purpose  ?  I  was  walking  off  my  dis- 
appointment, a  sort  of  thing  that  I  have  been  more  or  less 
used  to  all  my  life  !"  and  the  other  noticed  that  he  seemed  to 
sigh  wearily — "  walking  it  off  before  going  to  find  a  hotel  and 


438  THE      COWARD. 

lying  awake  all  night,  thinking  of  where  I  ought  to  have  been 
at  each  particular  hour." 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  "I  had  a  motive  not  personal 
to  myself,  in  accosting  you,  or  I  should  not  have  taken  the 
liberty.  I  am  Mr.  Henry  Fitzmaurice,  one  of  the  London 
correspondents  of  the  Dublin  Evening  Mail.  I  believe  that 
I  am  not  mistaken  in  supposing  that  I  am  speaking  to  an 
American  ?" 

"  Xot  at  all  mistaken !"  answered  the  American,  pleased 
with  a  frankness  so  much  more  like  that  of  his  native  land 
than  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting  during  his  short 
sojourn  abroad.  "  I  am  called  Mr.  Brand — Carlton  Brand, 
and  on  ordinary  occasions  I  am  a  lawyer  of  the  city  of  Phila- 
delphia." 

"  That  little  matter  over,  which  I  should  not  have  been  able 
to  manage  under  half  an  hour  had  I  been  a  pure  John  Bull 
instead  of  two-thirds  Irishman,"  said  the  man  who  had  intro- 
duced himself  as  Fitzmaurice,  in  a  vivacious  manner  very 
well  calculated  to  put  the  other  at  his  ease — "  now,  not  being 
either  of  us  members  of  the  Circumlocution  Office,  we  will 
get  at  the  gist  of  the  matter  at  once.  I  am  going  over  to 
Ireland  to-night,  or  at  least  I  am  going  to  make  a  start  in 
that  direction,  and  I  believe  that  I  can  manage  to  secure  you 
a  passage  if  you  will  accept  one." 

**  Certainly,  and  with  many  thanks,  but  how  ?"  was  the 
reply.         "^ 

"Well,  I  am  not  so  sure  about  the  thanks,"  said  Fitz- 
maurice, in  the  same  pleasant  tone  which  had  before  won  his 
companion.  "  It  is  going  to  be  a  wild  night  on  the  Channel,  if 
I  am  any  judge  of  weather,  and  I  have  crossed  it  often  enough 
to  begin  to  have  some  idea.  But  I  must  cross,  and  so  must 
you,  if  you  can,  as  I  understand  you  to  say." 

"I  must,  certainly,  if  any  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  vessel 
does  so,"  said  the  American.  "  But  you  have  not  yet  told 
me—" 

"Xo,  of  course  not!"  the  newspaper  man  ran  on.     "Al- 


THE      C  O  W  A  E  D  .  439 

ways  expect  an  Irislimau  to  begin  his  story  in  the  middle  and 
tell  it  out  at  each  end,  and  you  will  not  be  far  from  the  fact. 
Well,  there  are  some  despatches  for  the  Lord  Lieutenant  that 
need  to  be  across  before  noon  to-morrow,  as  the  Secretary  for 
Ireland  has  an  insane  fancy,  and  a  special  train  left  London 
to  make  the  connection  with  the  steamer  that  has  just  gone. 
I  came  in  it,  and  with  the  Queen's  messenger, — with  some 
matters  that  must  reach  the  3Iail  in  advance  of  the  other 
Dublin  papers.  They  have  a  little  despatch-steamer  lying 
just  below,  and  the  messenger  telegraphed  to  fire  her  up, 
from  one  of  the  back  stations,  when  he  found  the  chances 
against  him.  In  an  hour  she  will  have  a  full  head  of  steam, 
and  before  it  is  quite  dark  we  shall  be  clear  of  the  coast,  I 
have  no  doubt  that  I  can  procure  you  a  passage,  and  if  you 
will  step  round  with  me  to  the  wharf  where  she  lies,  I  will 
certainly  try  the  experiment.     Now  you  have  it."' 

"And  a  very  kind  and  generous  thing  I  have  at  the  same 
time  1"  exclaimed  the  American,  warmly. 

"As  I  said  before,  I  do  not  know  about  the  generosity  !" 
replied  the  correspondent,  as  they  took  their  way  around  the 
w^arehouses  that  headed  the  packet-wharf,  towards  the  pier 
below,  where  the  despatch-boat  lay.  "  The  fact  is  that  the 
Emerald  is  not  much  bigger  than  a  yawl,  and  though  she  is 
a  splendid  little  sea-boat  and  never  has  found  any  gale  in 
which  she  could  not  outlive  the  biggest  of  the  merchant 
steamers,  she  is  very  much  of  a  cockle-shell  in  the  way  of 
jumping  about ;  and  people  who  have  any  propensity  for 
sea-sickness,  a  thing  a  good  deal  worse  than  any  ordinary 
kind  of  death,  are  very  likely  to  have  a  little  turn  at  it  under 
such  circumstances." 

"  I  have  never  been  very  much  at  sea,  but  I  believe  that  I 
am  beyond  the  vulgarity  of  sea-sickness  !"  was  the  answer  ; 
and  just  then  they  reached  the  despatch-steamer. 

She  was  indeed  a  little  thing,  as  compared  with  the 
steamers  which  the  American  had  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing 
sent  away  on  sea-voyages — very  low  in  hull,  rakish  in  pipe 


440  THE      COWARD. 

and  masts,  looming  black  in  the  gathering  dusk  of  evening, 
and  her  bulwarks  seeming  so  low  as  to  present  the  same  ap- 
pearance of  insecurity  against  falling  overboard  that  a  lands- 
man's eye  immediately  perceives  in  a  first  glance  at  a  pilot- 
boat.  The  steam  was  already  well  up  and  hissing  from  her 
escape  valves,  while  the  black  smoke  rolled  away  from  her 
pipe  as  if  it  had  a  mission  to  cloud  the  whole  port  with  soot 
and  cinders. 

A  few  words  with  the  Queen's  messenger  and  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  Captain  of  .the  little  Emerald  followed  ;  and  the 
correspondent  of  the  Mail  had  not  overrated  his  influence 
with  either,  for  in  ten  minutes  the  lawyer  was  booked  for  a 
passage  over,  under  government  auspices.  In  half  an  hour 
more  the  despatch -boat  steamed  away;  and  when  the  deep 
dusk  of  night  fell  to  shut  away  the  Welsh  coast,  while  the 
half  dozen  officers  and  their  two  passengers  were  trifling  over 
a  very  pleasant  supper  with  wines  of  antediluvian  vintage 
accompanying,  the  Emerald  was  well  gfif  the  Head,  tossing 
about  like  a  cork  in  the  sea  that  seemed  to  be  every  moment 
growing  more  and  more  violent,  but  making  fine  weather 
through  it  all,  flying  like  a  race-horse,  and  promising,  if  every 
thing  held,  to  land  the  messenger  and  her  other  passengers  at 
Kingstown,  at  very  near  as  early  an  hour  in  the  morning  as 
those  touched  the  shore  who  had  left  Holyhead  two  hours 
before  by  the  packet. 

The  American  remained  long  on  the  deck,  in  conversation 
with  the  newspaper  correspondent,  delighted  with  the  cordiality 
of  his  manner  and  the  extensive  scope  of  his  information,  as  he 
had  before  been  with  the  generosity  which  supplied  himself 
with  a  passage  over  at  the  moment  of  disappointment.  The 
Hiberno-Englishman  seemed  to  be  equally  pleased  with  his 
new  friend,  whom  he  found  all  that  he  had  at  first  believed — 
a  gentleman,  and  neither  pickpocket  nor  madman.  Mr.  Fitz- 
maurice,  still  a  young  man  and  a  subordinate,  had  never  been 
in  America,  but  he  had  something  more  than  the  ordinary 
newspaper  stock  of  information  about  countries  lying  beyond 


THE      COWARD.  441 

sea,  and  he  had  the  true  journalist's  admiration  for  the  youiij^ 
land  that  has  done  more  for  journalism  within  fifty  years  than 
all  the  other  countries  of  the  world  through  all  the  ages.  He 
listened  with  pleasure  to  the  descriptions  which  the  lawyer 
was  equall}'-  able  and  willing  to  impart,  of  the  modes  in  which 
the  news-gathering  operations  of  theleading  American  news- 
papers were  carried  on,  and  especially  of  the  reckless  ex- 
posures of  correspondents  on  the  battle-fields  of  the  great 
war,  which  have  all  the  while  exhibited  so  much  bravery  and 
so  stupendous  a  spirit  of  enterprise,  combined  with  a  lack  of 
judgment  equally  injurious  and  deplorable. 

Mr.  Fitzmaurice,  on  his  part,  resident  in  London  during  all 
the  period  of  our  struggle,  necessarily  present  at  most  of  the 
parliamentary  debates  in  which  the  good  and  ill  feeling  of 
Englishmen  towards  the  United  States  have  been  shown  in 
such  unfavorable  proportions — acquainted  with  most  of  the 
leading  public  men  of  the  kingdom,  and  with  an  Irishman's 
rattle  making  the  conveying  of  his  impressions  a  thing  of 
equal  ease  and  pleasure, — he  had  much  to  say  that  interested 
the  Philadelphian ;  and  it  would  have  been  notable,  could  he 
have  been  fairly  behind  the  curtain  as  to  the  character  and 
movements  of  the  other,  to  mark  how  the  man  who  during 
two  weeks  residence  in  London  had  never  stepped  his  foot 
within  the  Parliament  Houses,  could  drink  in  and  digest, 
from  another's  lips,  the  story  of  the  debates  which  he  might 
so  easily  have  heard  first-handed  with  his  own  ears  ! 

But  as  the  newspaper  man  could  know  nothing  of  this, 
enough  to  say  that  the  conversation  was  a  pleasant  one,  and 
that  hours  rolled  away  unheeded  in  its  continuance,  while  the 
little  Emerald  skimmed  over  and  plunged  through  the  rough 
waves  of  the  Irish  Channel,  and  while  those  waves  grew 
heavier,  and  the  sky  darker,  and  the  wild  south-easter  in- 
creased every  hour  in  the  violence  with  which  it  whistled 
through  the  scant  rigging  and  sent  the  caps  of  the  waves 
whirling  and  dashing  past  the  adventurous  little  minnow  of 


4:4i2  THE      C  O  AV  A  R  D . 

the  steam-navy,  to  fall  in  showers  of  foamy  spray  far  to  lee- 
ward. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  the  young  men,  so  strangely 
thrown  together,  so  different  in  position  and  pursuit,  but  so 
pleasantly  agreeing  in  all  the  amenities  of  social  intercour.se, — 
began  to  feel  the  demands  of  sleep  overmastering  the  excite- 
ment of  the  situation,  left  the  deck  and  went  below  to  the 
berths  in  the  little  cramped  cabin  which  had  been  prepared 
for  them.  The  Queen's  messenger  had  already  retired  and 
was  sleeping  so  soundly  in  his  four-by-seven  state-room,  with 
his  despatches  under  his  pillow,  that  nothing  less  than  the 
going  to  pieces  of  the  steamer  or  an  order  to  start  on  a  new 
journey  could  possibly  have  woke  him.  To  such  men,  ever 
flying  from  one  port  to  another,  by  sea  and  by  land,  bearing 
the  lives  of  individuals  and  often  the  welfare  of  whole  peoples 
in  their  hands,  with  no  more  knowledge  of  what  they  bear 
than  has  the  telegraph  wire  of  the  message  that  thrills  along 
it — to  such  men,  habituated  to  excitement,  hurry  and  ex- 
posure, that  excitement  really  becomes  a  sort  of  second 
nature  ;  and  the  art  of  sleeping  on  the  ground,  on  a  board, 
bolt  upright  in  a  chair  or  even  in  the  saddle,  is  one  of  the 
accomplishments  soonest  learned  and  last  forgotten.  What 
are  storms  to  them  or  to  that  other  class  to  which  refer- 
ence has  before  been  made — the  rough  Ariels  of  the  news- 
paper Prospero  ?  Nothing,'  except  they  cause  hindrance  1 
What  is  even  the  deepest  personal  peril  by  sea  or  land  ? 
Nothing,  except  because  in  putting  a  sudden  period  to  the 
existence  of  the  messenger  it  may  interfere  with  the  delivery 
of  his  all-important  despatches  ! 

So  slept  the  Queen's  messenger,  and  so,  after  a  time,  in 
their  narrow  berths,  slept  the  American  and  bis  new-made 
friend.'  Once  falling  away  into  slumber,  the  very  motion  of 
the  vessel  made  that  slumber  more  intense  and  stupefying, 
old  Mother  Nature  rocking  her  children  somewhat  roughj}^ 
in  the  "  cradle  of  the  deep."  And  of  what  dreamed  they  ? 
Who  knows  ?     Perhaps  the  handsome  and  vivacious  young 


THK      COWARD.  4^3 

Anglo-Irishman  of  the  girl  whose  miniature  he  had  accidentally 
displayed  to  the  eyes  of  the  other,  filling  the  back  case  of  his 
watch, — not  yet  his  wife,  but  to  be  so  some  day  when  talent 
and  energy  should  bring  their  recompense  and  fortune  shower 
her  favors  a  little  more  liberally  upon  him.  Perhaps  the 
Philadelphia  lawyer  of  wrongs  and  shames  in  his  native 
land,  of  the  apparently  mad  quest  which  he  seemed  to  be 
urging,  and  of  possible  coming  days  when  all  errors  should 
be  repaired,  and  the  great  stake  of  his  life  won  beyond  a 
peradventure. 

How  long  the  lawyer  had  slept  he  knew  not,  when  some 
change  in  the  motion  of  the  boat  produced  the  same  effect  on 
his  slumbers  that  is  said  to  be  wrought  on  the  sleeping  miller 
by  the  stoppage  of  the  splashing  water-wheel  and  the 
rumbling  burr-stones.  He  had  slept  amidst  the  violent 
motion  :  he  partiiilly  woke  when  there  was  a  momentary 
cessation  of  it.  In  an  instant  after  the  vessel  seemed  to  be 
struck  one  tremendous  blow  that  sent  a  shiver  through  every 
plate  and  rivet  of  her  iron  hull — through  every  board  and 
stanchion  of  her  cabin-work.  There  are  men  who  can  remain 
undisturbed  by  such  a  sensation  on  ship-board,  but  the 
American  was  by  no  means  one  of  them  ;  and  the  fumes  of 
sleep,  partially  dissipated  before,  rolled  away  almost  as 
suddenly  as  morning  mists  before  a  brisk  north-wester.  He 
was  broad  awake  to  feel  a  hand"  grasping  him  by  the  shoulder, 
and  opened  his  eyes  to  see  Fitzmaurice  standing  by  the  berth 
and  holding  the  joiner- work  with  one  hand  to  support  him- 
self against  the  fearful  lurches  of  the  vessel,  while  he  had 
Employed  the  other  in  arousing  the  apparently  slumbering 
man. 

"  Get  up  and  come  out  at  once  !"  he  said,  his  voice  hoarse 
and  agitated. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  asked  the  American,  springing 
upright  in  his  berth  and  preparing  to  leap  from  it  as  men 
will  do  when  such  unpleasant  announcements  are  made.  He 
seemed  to  know,  intuitively  and  without  any  instruction  from 


4:4:4:  THE        C  O  W  A   K  D . 

the  shock  which  had  just  startled  him,  that  some  marked 
peril  must  have  sinit  the  journalist  down  to  arouse  him  ia 
that  melodramatic  mauner. 

"  Why,  we  are  in  danger,  I  suppose — serious  danger  !" 
was  the  replj.  "Do  you  not  feel  the  change  in  the  motion 
of  the  boat  ?  We  are  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  without  steam, 
and  as  near  as  I  can  make  out  through  the  mist,  driving  on 
the  Irish  coast  with  more  rapidity  than  we  bargained  for  !" 

"  Heavens  !"  was  the  very  natural  exclamation  in  reply,  as 
the  American  managed  with  some  difficulty  to  throw  on  the 
one  or  two  articles  of  clothing  of  which  he  had  divested 
himself. 

"  I  suppose  that  it  is  a  bad  job,"  the  journalist  continued, 
"  and  what  just  now  makes  me  feel  peculiarly  bad  about  it  is 
the  fact  that  I  was  the  means  of  inducing  you  to  come  on 
board,  and  that  if  any  thing  serious  should  happen — " 

"  Hush  !  not  a  word  of  that !"  said  the  lawyer,  appreciating 
fully  that  chivalrous  generosity  which  after  conferring  a  great 
favor  could  take  blame  to  itself  for  any  peril  growing  out  of 
that  favor.  "  Hush  !  You  have  treated  me,  Mr.  Fitzmaurice, 
with  great  kindness,  and  I  hope  you  will  believe  me  man 
enough  not  to  misunderstand  our  relative  positions  in  any 
thing  that  may  occur." 

Fitzmaurice,  who  seeraed  to  be  relieved  by  the  words,  but 
who  certainly  was  laboring  under  an  amount  of  depression  not 
incident  alone  to  any  peril  in  which  he  stood  personally  in- 
volved,— grasped  his  hand  with  something  more  than  the  or- 
dinary pressure  of  brief  acquaintance.  The  motion  of  the 
boat,  alternately  a  roll  and  then  a  heavy  plunge,  had  now 
become  absolutely  fearful,  intermingled  with  occasional  repeti- 
tions of  that  crashing  blow  which  had  started  the  American 
from  his  slumber  ;  but  holding  fast  of  each  other  and  of 
various  substantial  objects  that  fell  in  their  course,  the  two 
young  men  reached  the  companion  way  and  the  deck,  the 
journalist  detailing  meanwhile,  in  hasty  and  broken  words. 


THE      COWARD.  445 

what  he  Icnew  of  tlie  extent  of  the  (lifficultj  in  which  they 
were  involved. 

Up  to  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  before,  the  little  Emerald, 
a  capital  sea-boat  but  possessed  of  but  a  single  engine  (which 
description  of  single  engine  boats,  by  the  way,  should  never 
be  allowed  to  make  voyages  by  open  sea,  except  under  the 
especial  pilotage  of  one  Malthus),  had  been  making  good 
weather,  though  the  blow  had  increased  to  a  gale  and  the 
waves  of  the  Irish  Channel  increased  to  such  size  that  they 
seemed  to  be  opposed  to  the  Union  and  determined  to  make 
an  eternal  severance  of  the  two  islands.  Fitzmaurice  had 
himself  awoke  about  an  hour  before,  and  gone  upon  deck 
because  unable  to  sleep  longer  ;  and  he  had  consequently 
become  aware,  a  little  before  the  American  in  his  berth  did 
so,  of  an  accident  to  the  vessel.  One  moment  of  cessation  of 
the  plunging  roll  with  which  she  had  been  ploughing  ahead 
of  the  waves  breaking  on  her  larboard  quarter — a  moment  of 
almost  perfect  stillness,  as  if  the  little  vessel  lay  moored  in 
some  quiet  haven — then  a  sudden  veering  round  and  that  ter- 
rible crash  and  shock  of  the  waves  under  the  counter,  the 
wheel,  and  along  the  whole  side,  which  told  that  she  was 
lying  helpless  in  t4ie  trough  of  the  sea,  a  marine  Samson  as 
thoroughly  disabled  as  if  she  had  been  shorn  of  all  her  strength 
at  once  by  the  shears  of  one  of  the  Fates.  A  word  from  one 
of  the  officers,  the  moment  afterwards,  had  told  him  of  some 
disarrangement  of  the  engine,  consequent  on  the  severe 
strain  of  the  heavy  sea  upon  the  boat ;  and  he  had  then  been 
left  to  study  out  for  himself  the  amount  of  peril  that  might 
be  involved,  and  to  observe  the  coolness  with  which  officers 
and  men  devoted  themselves  to  a  task  which  might  or  might 
not  be  successful — which  might  terminate  at  any  moment  in 
one  of  those  terrible  seas  breaching  the  little  vessel  and 
foundering  her  as  if  she  had  indeed  been  nothing  but  a  yawl- 
boat  I  It  was  at  this  stage  that  he  had  come  down  and 
wakened  his  friend  of  a  few  hours,  feeling  some  responsibility 
for  his  safety  (as  well  as  a  presentiment  with  regard  to  him 


446  THE      COWARD. 

which  he  by  no  moans  expressed  in  words),  and  leaving"  the 
Queen's  messenger  to  pursue  his  dreamless  sleep  until  it 
should  end  in  Kingstown  harbor  or  at  the  bottom  of  "  Davy 
Jones'  locker." 

By  the  time  all  this  had  been  expressed  in  one  tenth  the 
number  of  words  here  employed,  they  had  reached  the  deck, 
and  certainly  the  prospect  there  was  any  thing  but  one  cal- 
culated to  re-assure  either.  The  Emerald  was  rolling  wheel- 
houses  under,  in  the  trough  of  the  sea,  but  5o  far  mysteriously 
relieving  herself  through  the  scuppers  as  it  seemed  impossible 
that  she  should  do.  Two  men  were  at  the  wheel,  but  they 
stood  necessarily  idle.  Forward  were  half  a  dozen  men,  hold- 
ing on  to  keep  from  going  overboard  at  the  first  lurch.  Even 
above  the  roar  of  the  storm  could  be  heard  the  sharp  clink  of 
hammers  coming  up  from  the  engine-room  and  each  sounding 
yet  one  pulse-beat  of  Hope.  The  south-easter  was  howling 
with  demoniac  fury,  wailing  through  the  rigging  as  if  singing 
requiems  for  them  all  in  advance,  and  driving  before  it  the 
thin  mists  that  shut  away  any  idea  of  the  sky.  By  the  light 
on  deck  and  on  the  troubled  expanse  of  water  eastward  it  was 
evident  that  day  was  breaking  ;  and  it  was  through  a  knowl- 
edge of  that  fact  and  of  the  rate  of  speed  ^t  which  they  had 
been  steaming  and  driving  partially  before  the  wind  all  night, 
that  Fitzmaurice  had  made  his  calculation  expressed  below, 
that  they  must  be  close  on  the  Irish  coast,  a  lee-shore,  in  such 
a  blow,  of  no  pleasant  character. 

Such  was  the  situation — a  deplorable  one,  as  any  one  can 
readily  perceive  who  has  ever  seen  its  precise  parallel ;  yet 
not  entirely  a  hopeless  one,  for  they  might  not  be  so  closo 
upon  the  coast  as  had  been  feared,  and  the  engine  might  yet 
be  thrown  again  into  gear  before  the  little  vessel  foundered 
and  in  time  to  claw  oflf  from  the  danger  lying  to  lee-ward. 
Fitzmaurice  had  seen  the  position  before  :  the  American  saw 
it  at  once  through  his  own  eyes  and  from  the  explanations 
given  him  by  the  journalist.  The  moment  was  not  favorable 
for  conversation,  in  that  perilous  motion,  that  roar  of  wind 


THE      COWARD.  447 

and  wave  and  that  suspense  of  mind  ;  and  the  two  youn^ 
men  held  none  except  in  a  few  words  ahnost  shouted  to  each 
other,  but  stood  far  aft  on  the  larboard  quarter,  waiting  calmly 
as  two  men  with  human  instincts  could  be  expected  to  wait- 
for — what  Heaven  only  knew  !  The  face  of  the  Anglo-Irish- 
man was  almost  thoughtlessly  calm,  in  spite  of  the  anxiety 
which  he  had  so  plainly  expressed  :  that  of  the  American  was 
dark,  his  lips  set  and  his  brow  contracted,  but  there  was  no 
sigh  of  shrinking  and  no  indication  of  that  basest  passion, 
fear  I  Who  could  believe  that  the  man  standing  there  in  the 
gray  light  of  morning  and  awaiting  without  one  apparent 
tremor  of  the  muscles  what  might  be  an  immediate  and  a 
painful  death,  bore  a  name  that  had  been  so  lately  dishonored 
by  the  most  abject  cowardice  ? 

Suddenly  there  was  a  cry  which  has  blanched  many  a  cheek 
and  made  many  a  lip  tremble  since  Noah  made  his  first  sea- 
voyage  in  the  Ark  :  "  Land  on  the  starboard  quarter  !"  fol- 
lowed by  another  and  yet  more  startling  call :  "  Breakers  to 
leeward  !" 

Fitzmaurice  and  the  American  both  turned  instantly  in  the 
direction  indicated,  as  was  inevitable  ;  and  then  they  saw  that 
the  warning  cry  from  the  look-out  was  not  the  result  of  any 
illusion.  The  daylight  was  rapidly  broadening,  the  mist  had 
for  the  moment  driven  away  leeward  ;  and  apparently  not 
more  than  a  mile  away  rose  a  huge  dark  headland  assuming 
the  proportions  of  a  mountain,  while  at  its  base  and  in  the 
exact  direction  towards  which  the  doomed  vessel  was  drifting, 
the  sea  was  breaking  in  wreaths  of  white  foam  over  ledges 
of  rock  which  seemed  to  be  already  so  near  that  the}'  must 
go  grinding  and  crashing  upon  them  before  the  lapse  of  five 
minutes.  They  felt  that  the  water  shoaled,  too,  for  the 
plunging  roll  of  the  disabled  steamer  grew  every  moment 
more  terrible,  and  just  as  the  cry  was  given  she  was  breached 
at  the  waist  by  a  sea  from  which  she  did  not  immediately 
clear  herself.  It  only  needed  an  eye  that  had  ever  scanned 
peril  by  sea  and  shore,  to  know  at  that  moment  that  the 


448  THE      COWARD. 

Emerald  and  all  on  board  were  as  certainly  doomed,  in  all 
Ijuiuan  probabilit}^,  as  if  the  one  bad  been  already  broken  up 
and  scattered  along  the  coast  in  fragments  and  the  others 
made  food  for  fishes  along  the  rocks  of  Ireland's  Eye  I 

"  The  Hill  of  Howth  and  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  it !"  cried 
Fitzraaurice  as  he  recognized  the  position.  "Now  God  help 
us,  for  they  are  dead  to  leeward,  and  if  we  have  any  accounts 
to  settle  we  had  better  settle  them  rapidly  I" 

There  was  little  agitation  in  his  tone,  now,  and  there  was 
none  in  that  of  the  American  as  he  replied  two  words.  They 
were  the  last  he  ever  spoke,  to  mortal  ear.  May  they  have 
been  true  when  he  awoke  from  his  long  sleep,  as  they  were 
before  he  fell  into  it  I     Those  two  words  were  : 

''  I  see  !'' 

The  two  men  were  standing,  as  has  been  said,  very  near 
the  larboard  quarter.  The  Emerald,  too,  as  has  also  been 
already  said,  was  very  low  in  the  bulwarks,  as  befitted  her 
rake  and  her  clipper  appearance.  Just  as  the  lawyer  uttered 
the  two  words,  one  of  the  officers  of  the  steamer  came  aft, 
holding  on  amidst  the  terrible  roll  with  something  of  the  te- 
nacity of  a  cat,  and  took  his  place  at  the  wheel.  The  mist 
had  closed  down  again  and  the  Hill  of  Howth  and  the  break- 
ers were  both  for  the  moment  shut  away. 

There  was  a  jar — a  creeping,  trembling  jar  that  seemed  to 
run  through  the  little  steamer,  from  stem  to  stern-post,  and 
yet  no  blow  from  the  fierce  waves  and  no  grinding  of  her 
keel  upon  the  dreaded  rocks.  It  was  life — motion — the  beat 
of  machinery  once  more  !  At  that  critical  juncture  the  engine 
had  moved  again  for  the  first  time,  and  if  not  safety  there  was 
yet  at  least  another  struggle  with  destiny.  The  officer  had 
dashed  back  to  throw  the  steamer  up  into  the  wind,  the  very 
instant  that  he  felt  the  steam  once  more  rushing  into  the 
cylinder. 

Then  followed  what  cannot  be  described,  because  no  one 
living  can  say  precisely  what  occurred.  Gathering  way  al- 
most in  an  instant  from  the  mad  dash  of  her  wheels  into  the 


THE      COWARD.  449 

water,  the  little  Emerald  plunged  forward  as  if  for  her  life. 
She  had  but  a  hundred  or  two  yards  of  vantage  ground  left, 
and  seemed  to  know  it.  As  she  gathered  way  and  the  quick 
whirl  of  the  wheel  swept  her  head  gradually  round  to  the 
sea,  one  mighty  w^ave,  as  if  afraid  of  being  baulked  of  its 
prey  and  determined  upon  a  final  effort,  struck  her  under  the 
weather  bow  and  port  wheel  and  sent  her  careening  so  low 
to  leeward  that  the  starboard  wheel-house  and  even  the  star- 
board quarter-rail  were  under  water.  She  rolled  back  again 
in  an  instant,  triumphant  over  the  great  enemy,  and  thence- 
forward dashed  away  from  the  white  breakers  on  her  lee  as 
if  she  had  been  merely  tantalizing  them  with  a  futile  pros- 
pect of  her  destruction, — to  make  her  way  safely  two  hours 
afterwards  into  Kingstown  Harbor  and  to  land  the  Queen's 
messenger  (who  had  just  then  awoke)  and  the  correspondent 
of  the  Evening  Mail,  only  an  hour  later  than  the  passengers 
by  the  packet  had  disembarked. 

But  she  did  not  land  the  American.  When  the  steamer 
rolled  down  with  her  starboard  quarter-rail  under  water, 
Fitzmaurice,  standing  nearest  to  the  larboard  quarter,  called 
out  to  his  companion  :  "  Look  out  and  hold  on  !"then  clutched 
the  bulwark  with  his  own  hands  and  obeyed  his  own  injunc- 
tion. But  wlien  the  steamer  righted  he  was  alone  !  Whether 
the  lawyer  had  missed  footing  and  failed  to  grasp  any  point 
of  support  at  the  critical  moment,  or  whether  he  had  lost 
head  in  the  dizzying  motion  and  gone  over  without  even 
knowing  his  danger, — certain  it  is  that  he  had  been  swept 
overboard  under  circumstances  in  which  the  whole  British 
navy  could  have  done  no  more  to  save. him  than  one  child  of 
ten  years!  Henry  Fitzmaurice,  missing  him  and  dreading 
what  had  really  occurred,  thought  that  for  one  second  he  saw 
a  human  head,  with  the  hair  streaming  up,  away  off  in  the 
yeasty  water :  but  that  was  all.  And  he  said,  bitterly,  real- 
izing all  the  painful  facts  of  the  event,  and  taking  to  himself 
a  thought  of  regret  that  was  likely  to  cling  to  him  while  his 
generous  heart  continued  to  beat : 
28 


450  THE      COWARD. 

"  My  God  I — it  was  just  as  I  thought !     I  have  been  the 
means  of  drowning  that  splendid  fellow,  after  all  1" 


A  few  hours  later,  little  Shelah,  the  barefooted  daughter 
of  one  of  the  poor  fishermen  whose  hut  stood  at  the  foot  of 
Howth,  around  northward  towards  Ireland's  Eye — little 
Shelah,  who  had  gone  down  over  the  rocks  to  the  beach 
when  the  worst  of  the  storm  was  over,  rushed  back  to  the 
cabin  with  terror  in  her  eyes  and  broken  words  upon  her  lips  : 

"  Oh,  father  I — there  bees  a  man  all  dead  and  dhrownded 
down  there  by  the  rocks  beyant !  And  he  bees  so  handsome 
and  so  much  like  a  rale  gintleman  ! — how  could  he  dhround  ? 
Come  down  and  see  till  him,  father  !" 

The  fisherman  went  down,  and  he  and  his  rough  mates  re- 
moved the  body  and  did  their  humble  and  inefi'ectual  all  to 
resuscitate  a  body  from  which  the  breath  of  life  had  long 
departed.  Then  the  fisherman  and  his  wife  and  his  mates  and 
little  Shelah  all  mourned  over  the  manly  beauty  that  had 
been  sacrificed,  and  wondered  who  he  could  possibly  be,  and 
where  his  kindred  would  mourn  for  him.  It  was  only  when 
Father  Michael,  the  good  old  priest  of  the  parish  was  sum- 
moned, that  they  could  form  any  nearer  idea  of  the  personality 
of  the  drowned  man.  Then  they  knew,  for  Father  Michael 
could  read,  as  they  could  not,  and  he  told  them,  from  one  of 
the  cards  in  the  pocket-book,  that  "  his  name  had  been  Carlton 
Brand,  and  that  he  had  belonged  to  Philadelphia,  away  over 
in  America,  where  they  used  to  be  so  free  and  happy,  but 
where  they  were  fighting,  now,  all  the  time,  about  the 
naygurs  that  didn't  seem  to  him  worth  the  throuble  !" 

They  buried  him,  with  such  lamentations  as  they  might 
have  bestowed  upon  "  one  of  their  own,"  in  consecrated 
ground  in  a  little  graveyard  a  mile  away  from  the  Hill, 
w^estward  ;  and  Father  Michael  gave  the  dead  man  the  benefit 
of  a  benevolent  doubt  as  to  his  religion,  with  the  remark  that 
"  there  were  good  Christians  over  in  America,  and  this  was 
one  of  them,  maybe  !"  uttering  a  prayer  for  the  repose  of  his 


THE      COWARD.  451 

soul  that,  if  it  bore  him  no  nearer  to  the  Beautiful  Gate, 
certainly  left  him  no  farther  away  from  it,  while  it  fuKillcd 
the  behest  of  a  simple  and  beautiful  faith  !  This  done,  aud 
a  note  despatched  to  his  favorite  journal,  giving  the  name 
and  place  of  burial  of  the  unfortunate  man.  Father  Michael 
felt,  as  he  had  reason  to  feel,  that  he  had  done  his  whole 
melancholy  duty. 

"Whatever  the  quest  of  the  American,  it  was  ended  :  what- 
ever had  been  the  secret  of  his  unrest,  it  was  not  a  secret  to 
the  eyes  that  thenceforth  watched  over  a  destiny  no  longer 
temporal  but  eteini' 


It  has  been  suggested  that  Henry  Fitzmaurice,  the  jour- 
nalist, so  strangely  thrown  into  the  company  of  the  Phila- 
delphian,  so  much  pleased  with  his  manner  and  impressed  by 
his  conversation,  and  so  suddenly  separated  from  him  by  an 
accident  which  seemed  to  have  something  of  his  own  handi- 
work in  its  production, — was  likely  to  bear  with  him,  during 
life,  a  regret  born  of  that  circumstance.  Such  being  the  case, 
it  was  eminently  natural  that  in  giving  a  description  of  the 
accident  to  the  despatch-steamer  and  the  peril  to  her  pas- 
sengers, -on  the  day  following,  in  the  Mail,  he  should  have 
dwelt  at  some  length  on  the  sad  fate  of  Mr.  Carlton  Brand, 
the  American,  alluded  in  terms  of  warm  respect  to  the 
character  which  had  briefly  fallen  under  his  observation,  and 
felicitates  the  far-away  friends  Of  the  unfortunate  man,  on  tho 
fact  already  made  public  in  the  Nation,  that  the  body  had 
been  early  recovered  and  received  tender  and  honorable 
Christian  burial. 


4.">2  THE      COWARD. 


CHAPTER     XXIL 

Pleasanton's  advance  on  Culpeper — Crossing  the  Rappa- 
hannock— The  Fight  and  the  Calamity  op  Rawson's 
Cross-Roads — Taking  of  Culpeper — Pleasanton's  Vol- 
unteer Aide — Townsend  versus  Coles — The  Meeting 
OF  two  who  Loved  each  other — And  the  little  Ride 

THEY  TOOK  TOGETHER. 

On  Sunday  the  thirteenth  day  of  September,  1863,  and 
Monday  the  fourteenth,  but  principally  on  the  former  day, 
took  place  that  running  fight  which  displayed  some  of  the 
very  noblest  qualities  of  the  federal  cavaliy  shown  during  the 
War  for  the  Union,  and  which  is  better  entitled  than  other- 
wise to  be  designated  as  the  Battle  of  Culpeper.  One  of  the 
first  conclusive  indications  was  given  in  that  fight,  that  while 
the  rebel  cavalry,  which  at  the  beginning  of  the  war  was 
certainly  excellent,  had  been  running  down  from  the  giving 
out  of  their  trained  horses,  and  the  deterioration  of  the  quality 
of  their  riders  through  forced  conscription, — the  Union 
cavalry,  at  first  contemptible  in  force  and  inefficient  in  com- 
parison to  their  very  numbers,  had  every  day  been  improving 
as  fast  as  augmenting,  until  they  had  become  the  superiors 
of  what  the  best  of  their  foes  had  been  at  the  beginning  of 
the  contest.  War  can  make  any  thing  (except  perhaps 
statesmen)  out  of  a  given  quantity  of  American  material ; 
but  it  can  unmake  as  well,  when  it  strains  the  material 
existing  and  creates  a  forced  supply  for  the  vacant  places  of 
the  dead  and  the  vanquished,  out  of  the  infirm  and  the  in- 
capable ;  and  before  the  end  of  this  conflict  the  lesson  will 
have  been  so  closely  read  as  never  to  need  a  repetition. 

The  rebels  held  Culpeper  and  the  south  l)ank  of  the  Rap- 
pahannock, and  had  held  the  whole  of  that  line  for  weeks, 
formidable  in  their  occasional  demonstrations,  but  still  more 
formidable  in  what  it  was  believed  they  might  do  by  a  sud- 


THE      COWARD.  458 

den  crossing:  of  that  dividing  stream  at  some  moment  when 
the  Union  forces  should  be  deficient  in  vigilance,  preoccupied, 
or  otherwise  embarrassed.  They  were  to  be  driven  back  if 
possible,  from  their  threatening  front,  or  if  not  driven  back, 
at  least  struck  such  a  blow  as  would  make  early  offensive 
operations  on  their  part  improbable.  These  were  the  inten- 
tions, so  far  as  they  can  be  known  and  judged,  which  led  to 
the  crossing  of  the  Rappahannock  at  that  particular  juncture. 

At  three  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  that  Sunday  which  was 
to  join  with  so  many  other  days  of  battle  during  the  rebel- 
lion in  proving  that  "there  are  no  Sabbaths  in  war," — at  an 
hour  when  the  thick  darkness  preceding  the  dawn  hung  like 
a  pall  over  the  banks  of  the  rugged  stream  and  the  hostile 
forces  that  fringed  it  on  either  side — the  cavalry  camps  on  the 
north  side  of  the  Rappahannock  were  all  astir.  All  astir,  and 
yet  all  strangely  quiet,  in  comparison  with  the  activity  mani- 
fested.' No  mellow  bugle  rang  out  its  notes  of  reveille  ;  there 
was  no  rattle  of  drum  or  shrieking  of  fife  ;  the  laggard  sleeper 
was  awakened  by  a  touch  on  the  shoulder,  a  shake,  or  a  quick 
word  in  his  ear.  Horses  were  saddled  in  silence  ;  and  at  the 
commands:  ** Prepare  to  mount!"  "Mount!"  given  in  the 
lowest  possible  tones  that  could  command  attention,  the 
drowsy  blue-jacketted,  yellow-trimmed  troopers,  all  be- 
spurred  and  be-sabred  as  if  equal  foes  to  the  horses  they 
were  to  ride  and  the  enemies  they  were  to  encounter, — 
vaulted  lightly  or  swung  themselves  heavily,  according  to  the 
manner  of  each  particular  man,  into  their  high  peaked  McClel- 
lan  saddles  that  seemed  to  be  all  that  was  left  them  of  their 
old  leader.  The  squadrons  were  formed  as  quietly  and  with  as 
few  words  as  had  accompanied  the  awakening  and  the  mount- 
ing ;  for  if  a  surprise  of  the  enemy's  force  was  to  take  place, 
it  was  a  matter  of  the  highest  consequence  that  no  loud  sound 
or  careless  exclamation  should  reach  the  ears  of  the  wary 
pickets  and  wide-awake  videttes  of  the  rebels  hugging  close 
the  banks  on  the  south  side  of  the  narrow  river. 

The  preparations  were  at  last  and  hastily  completed,  long 


454:  THE      COWARD. 

before  the  gray  dawn  after  the  moonless  night  had  begun  to 
break  over  the  Virginia  hills  lying  dark  and  cool  to  the  east- 
^ward.  Perhaps  that  very  morning  had  been  selected  for  the 
attack  because  on  the  night  before  the  new  moon  had  made 
its  appearance  and  there  was  no  tell-tale  lingerer  to  throw  an 
awkward  gleam  on  an  accoutrement  and  thus  tell  a  story 
meant  to  be  concealed.  Troopers  clustered  together  and  formed 
squadrons,  squadrons  were  merged  into  regiments  which  in 
turn  swelled  to  brigades  and  brigades  to  divisions.  It  was 
only  then  that  the  extensive  nature  of  the  movement,  which 
had  Pleasanton  at  the  head  and  Buford,  Gregg  and  Kilpatrick 
all  engaged  in  the  execution,  could  have  been  conjectured  even 
by  an  eye  capable  of  peering  through  the  darkness.  It  seemed 
scarcely  an  hour  after  the  first  awakening  when  the  formation 
was  complete  and  the  order  to  ''March  !"  given  ;  and  there 
was  not  even  yet  a  gleam  of  red  in  the  eastern  sky  when  the 
whole  command  was  in  motion. 

This  large  cavalry  force,  under  Pleasanton  as  we  have 
said,  was  composed  of  three  divisions,  commanded  respec- 
tively by  Buford,  Gregg  and  Kilpatrick,  all  Brigadiers.  The 
Rappahannock  was  crossed  at  as  many  different  points. 
Buford  with  the  First  going  over  at  Starke's  Ford  ;  Gregg, 
wnth  the  Second,  at  Sulphur  Springs,  four  miles  distant ; 
and  Kilpatrick,  with  the  Third,  at  Kelly's  Ford,  nine  miles 
farther  down  and  thirteen  miles  distant  from  the  place  of 
crossing  of  the  First.  Stuart,  the  famous  "  Jeb,"  with  his 
confederate  cavalry,  was  known  to  be  in  force  on  the  ele- 
vated ground  at  and  around  Culpeper  Court  House,  with  his 
pickets  and  videttes  extending  to  the  very  edge  of  the  Rap- 
paliannock;  and  a  wide  sweep  of  the  Union  force  was  be- 
lieved to  be  necessary  to  circumvent  him.  Detachments  of 
rebel  troops  were  also  known  to  hold  all  the  prominent 
points  between  Culpeper  and  Brandy  Station,  where  the 
brigades  of  Lomax  and  W.  F.  H.  Lee  were  lying. 

Pleasanton  was  over  the  river,  with  all  his  force  before 
broad  daylight — so  rapid  and  successful  had  been  the  move- 


THE      COWARD.  455 

ment.  The  roads  were  dry  and  in  as  good  order  as  Vir- 
ginia roads  are  ever  allowed  to  be  by  the  powers  that  preside 
over  highways ;  and  the  force,  still  in  the  three  divisions, 
swept  southward  as  silently  as  iron-shod  animals  have  the 
capacity  for  bearing  iron-accoutred  riders.  Napoleon  la  Petit 
had  never  yet  succeeded  in  introducing  gutta-percha  scab- 
bards for  the  swords  of  his  troopers  and  gutta-percha  shoes 
for  their  horses,  even  into  the  French  cavalry  ;  and  the  Yankee 
troops  of  Pleasanton  had  all  the  disadvantages  of  the  usual 
rattling  of  bridle-bits  the  clattering  of  sabres  within  steel 
scabbards,  and  the  pounding  of  multitudinous  hoofs  upon  the 
hard  dry  earth,  the  latter  occasionally  a  little  muffled  by  an 
inch  of  gray  powdery  dust,  choking  the  riders  as  it  made  their 
advance  less  noisy. 

Spite  of  the  clanking  of  hoof  and  steel,  however,  the  ad- 
vance w^as  made  with  such  silence  and  celerity  that  the 
greater  portion  of  the  rebel  pickets  on'the  southern  bank  of 
the  Rappahannock  were  captured,  while  the  remainder — here 
and  there  one  scenting  danger  afar  off  and  holding  an  advan- 
tage in  knowledge  of  the  roads — fled  in  dismay  to  report  that 
the  whole  Army  of  the  Potomac,  sappers  and  miners,  pioneers 
and  pontoniers,  horse,  foot  and  dragoons,  was  closing  in  upon 
Culpeper. 

As  the  morning  advanced  and  the  light  grew^  stronger,  so 
that  the  danger  and  the  persons  of  the  attacking  forces  could 
at  once  be  better  distinguished,  skirmishing  commenced  with 
that  portion  of  the  rebel  force,  stationed  in  more  or  less 
strength  at  various  points  and  called  to  arms  by  their  pickets 
being  driven  in  upon  them, — to  meet  and  if  possible  check 
the  advancing  columns.  Not  long  before  they  discovered  that 
any  effectual  check  to  the  forces  which  Pleasanton  seemed  to 
be  pouring  down  every  cross  road  and  throwing  out  from 
behind  every  clump  of  woods  on  the  roadsides,  was  impos- 
sible ;  and  they  fell  back,  skirmishing. 

At  Brandy  Station  (droll  and  unfortunate  name,  destined 
to  supply  more  bad  jokes  at  the  expense  of  the  dry  throats 


i56  TUB      COWARD. 

of  the  army  thau  almost  any  other  ppot  on  Virginia  soil),  a 
junction  of  the  three  divisions  of  Union  troops  was  effected; 
and  there,  while  that  disposition  was  being  made,  a  sharp 
fight  took  place  between  the  First,  under  Buford,  and  the  rebel 
cavalry  under  Colonel  Beale  of  the  Ninth  Virginia.  But  that 
struggle,  though  sharp,  was  only  of  brief  continuance  :  out- 
foughten,  and  it  must  be  confessed,  outnumbered,  the  enemy- 
was  driven  back  from  the  Station  and  pursued  vigorously. 

While  the  gallant  Buford  was  thus  occupied  with  the  First, 
Gregg,  with  the  Second  division  was  making  a  detour  to  the 
right  and  pouring  down  his  troopers  upon  Culpeperfrom  the 
north  by  the  Ridgeville  road,  driving  before  him  upon  the 
main  body  at  the  Court  House  a  rebel  brigade  that  had  held 
the  advance,  under  General  Lomax  (an  officer  whose  name, 
we  may  as  well  say,  apropos  of  the  bad  jokes  of  war-time, 
had  caused  nearly  as  many  of  those  verbal  outrages  upon 
English,  as  the  unfortunate  Brandy  Station  itself). 

Kilpatrick,  meanwhile,  with  his  Third  division  had  not 
been  idle.  (AVhen  was  he  ever  known  to  be  idle,  except  when 
others  held  him  in  check,  or  ineffective  except  when  some 
other  than  himself  misdirected  his  dashing  energy  ?)  lie  had 
swept  around  to  the  left,  nearly  at  the  same  time  that  Gregg 
made  the  detour  to  the  right,  and  striking  the  Stevensburgh 
road  advanced  rapidly  from  the  east  towards  Culpeper  and 
the  right  of  the  enemy's  position,  which  rested  on  Rawson's 
Cross-Roads,  two  miles  south-east  of  the  Court-House.  The 
rebels  here  made  a  stubborn  resistance,  and  steel  met  steel 
and  pistol-shot  replied  to  sabre-stroke  as  it  had  not  before 
done  that  day  ;  but  the  odds  were  a  little  against  them  ;  they 
were  outflanked  by  that  incarnate  "  raider"  of  the  Sussex 
mountains  of  Xew  Jersey,  who  no  doubt  could  trace  back 
some  drop  of  his  blood  to  Johnny  Armstrong  the  riever  of 
the  Scottish  border,  or  the  moss  troopers  of  the  Bog  of  Allen 
in  Ireland ;  and  they  fell  back  to  the  town  and  beyond  it, 
taking  up  new  positions  which  they  were  not  destined  to  hold 
much  longer  than  those  they  had  abandoned. 


THB      COWARD.  457 

But  this  brief  shock  of  battle  between  the  division  of  Kil- 
Patrick  and  the  rebels  opposed  to  it,  did  not  roll  away  from 
the  little  hamlet  of  Rawson's  Cross-Roads  without  the  en- 
acting of  one  of  those  sad  tragedies,  in  the  shedding  of  the 
blood  of  nipn-combatants,  which  seem  so  much  more  painful 
than  the  wholesale  but  expected  slaughter  of  the  field.  Near 
the  crossing  of  the  roads  there  stood  one  brick  house,  of  two 
stories,  the  only  one  of  that  material  in  the  vicinity.  This 
house,  when  Kilpatrick  came  up,  was  occupied  by  the  rebel 
sharp-shooters,  partially  sheltered  by  the  thick  walls  and 
bringing  down  the  federal  cavalry  from  their  saddles  at  every 
discharge  of  their  deadly  rifles.  Such  obstructions  in  the 
way  of  an  advance,  especially  when  they  destroy  as  well  as 
embarrass,  are  not  apt  to  be  treated  with  much  toleration  by 
those  who  have  the  power  to  sweep  them  away  ;  and  imme- 
diately when  the  imminence  of  the  danger  was  discovered, 
one  of  the  federal  batteries  was  ordered  up  to  dislodge  the 
sharp-shooters.  It  dashed  up  with  all  the  celerity  that 
whipped  and  spurred  and  galloping  horses  could  give  it, 
halted  within  point-blank  range,  unlimbered,  and  sent  shell, 
canister  and  case-shot  into  and  through  the  obnoxious  edifice 
in  a  manner  and  with  a  rapidity  little  calculated  upon  by  the 
mason  who  quietly  laid  his  courses  of  bricks  for  the  front  and 
side-walls,  in  the  quiet  years  before  Virginia  secession.     The 

sharp-shooters  were  soon  silenced  and  dislodged at  least  all 

of  them  who  were  left  after  the  last  deadly  discharge  of  mis- 
siles had  been  poured  in  by  the  battery ;  and  the  house  was 
at  once  occupied,  when  the  firing  ceased,  by  a  detachment  of 
Union  cavalry  dismounted  for  that  service.  When  those  men 
entered  the  half-ruined  building  they  first  became  aware  of 
this  extraordinary  and  deplorable  tragedy,  in  which  a  little 
blood  went  so  far  in  aAvakening  regret  and  horror.  They 
heard  cries  of  pain  and  shrieks  of  distress  and  fear,  echoing 
through  the  building,  in  other  accents  than  those  which  could 
belong  to  wounded  soldiers— the  tones  of  women  !  And  in 
the  cellar  they  found  the  painful  solution  of  the  mystery 


458  THE      COWARD. 

more  painful  far,  to  them,  than  a  hundred  times  the  death  and 
sufforiug  under  ordinar}^  circumstances.  In  that  cellar,  among 
smoke,  and  blood  and  dust,  were  huddled  twenty  or  thirty 
non-combatants,  men,  women  and  children  ;  and  in  their  midst 
lay  an  old  man,  quite  dead  and  the  upper  part  of  his  head 
half  carried  away  by  a  portion  of  shell,  while  fallen  partially 
across  his  legs  was  the  body  of  his  son  of  sixteen,  his  boyish 
features  scarcely  yet  stilled  in  the  repose  of  death  from  a 
ghastly  hurt  that  had  torn  away  the  arm  and  a  part  of  the 
shoulder.  Two  women  lay  near,  one  dying  from  a  blow"  on 
the  temple  which  had  driven  in  the  bones  of  the  skull  like  the 
crushing  of  an  egg-shell,  and  the  other  uttering  the  most 
heart-rending  of  the  cries  and  groans  under  the  agony  of  a 
crushed  leg  and  a  foot  literally  blown  to  atoms.  A  sad  sight ! 
• — a  harrowing  spectacle,  even  for  war-time  !  And  how  had 
it  been  occasioned  ? 

It  would  seem  that  on  the  approach  of  the  cavulry  and  the 
commencement  of  fighting  in  the  neighborhood,  this  party  of 
non-combatants  had  crowded  into  this  house — no  doubt  long 
to  be  known  in  the  local  traditions  of  the  place  as  that  of 
James  Inskip, — and  taken  refuge  in  the  cellar,  believing  that 
in  it,  as  the  only  brick  house  in  the  vicinity,  they  would  be 
safest  from  the  missiles  of  the  opposing  forces.  And  so  they 
would  have  been,  safe  enough  beyond  a  doubt,  had  not  the 
rebel  commander,  unaware  of  the  presence  of  non-combatants 
in  the  building,  or  heedless  of  the  common  law  of  humanity  not 
to  expose  them  to  unnecessary  danger  in  any  military  opera- 
tion, recklessly  placed  his  sharp-shooters  in  shelter  there  and 
thus  drawn  the  fire  of  the  fatal  battery.  Two  or  three  of  the 
shells,  crashing  through  the  house,  had  fallen  into  the  cellar 
and  exploded  in  the  very  midst  of  the  trembling  skulkers  in 
their  place  of  fancied  security, — with  the  sad  results  that  have 
been  recorded,  and  which  none  more  deeply  deplored  than  the 
men  who  had  unwittingly  slaughtered  the  aged  and  the  help- 
less. Some  of  the  Richmond  papers  told  harrowing  stories, 
a  few  days  after,  of  the  *'  inhuman  barbarity  of  the  dastardly 


THE      COWARD.  459 

Yankees  who  wantonly  butchered  those  inoffensive  raen  and 
helpless  women  and  children  in  James  Inskip's  house  at  Ilaw- 
son's  Cross-Roads" ;  but  they  forgot,  as  newspapers  on  both 
sides  of  the  sad  stmgorle  have  too  often  done  during  its  con- 
tinuance, to  add  one  word  of  the  explanatory  and  extenuating 
circumstances ! 

By  the  time  that  Kilpatrick,  with  the  Third,  had  concluded 
the  episode  of  Rawson's  Cross-Roads  and  driven  the  oppos- 
ing forces  back  upon  the  town,  Buford,  with  the  First,  after 
chasing  the  rebel  cavalry  under  Beale  to  moderate  satisfaction, 
had  come  up  from  the  south,  and  the  junction  of  the  three 
divisions  was  accomplished. 

On  the  elevated  site  of  Culpeper  and  in  the  uneven  streets  of 
that  old  town  w^hich  bears,  like  so  many  of  its  compeers, 
shabby  recollections  of  English  aristocracy  that  for  some 
cause  seem  to  suit  it  better  than  the  thin  pretence  of  demo- 
cratic government, — there  Stuart,  than  whom  the  rebellion 
has  developed  no  more  restless  or  more  active  foe  of  the 
Union  cause,  appeared  determined  to  make  a  last  and  effectual 
stand.  With  a  celerity  worthy  of  his  past  reputation  he  placed 
sharp-shooters  in  houses  that  commanded  the  Union  advance, 
planted  batteries  at  advantageous  positions  in  the  streets,  and 
threw  up  barricades  of  all  the  unemployed  carts  and  wagons 
and  all  the  idle  timber  and  loose  fence-rails  lying  about  the 
town,  in  a  manner  which  would  have  endeared  him  to  the 
Parisians  of  the  time  of  Louis  Philippe.  Right  and  left  and 
on  every  hand,  defending  these  obstructions  and  supporting  the 
batteries,  dashed  his  mounted  "Yirginia  gentlemen,"  once  the 
very  Paladins  of  their  knightly  class,  when  Fauquier  and  the 
White  Sulphur  saw  the  pleasant  sport  of  tilting  at  the  ring  in 
the  presence  of  the  bright-eyed  Queens  of  Beauty  of  the  Old 
Dominion, — now  brought  down  to  the  level  and  compelled  to 
contest  the  fatal  advance,  of  a  "  horde  of  Yankee  tailors  on 
horseback"  ! 

General  Pleasanton,  the  actual  as  well  as  nominal  head  of 
the  Union  advance,  held  his  position  on  an  eminence  a  short 


460  THS      COWARD. 

distance  east  of  the  town,  from  which  an  excellent  view  of 
the  whole  situation  could  be  commanded,  and  whence  he 
directed  all  the  movements  with  the  rapidity  of  a  soldier  and 
the  coolness  of  a  man  thoroughly  in  confidence  with  himself 
and  well  assured  of  the  material  of  his  command.  He  had 
won  with  the  same  troops  before,  even  when  placed  at  disad- 
vantage: that  day  he  felt  that  the  game  was  in  his  own  hands 
and  that  he  could  play  it  rapidly  and  yet  steadily.  The  thing 
which  worst  troubled  him  as  from  that  little  eminence  he  looked 
out  from  under  his  bent  brows,  over  the  scene  which  was  to  wit- 
ness so  short,  sharp  and  decisive  a  conflict, — was  the  knowl- 
edge how  seriously  the  stubborn  resistance  offered  by  the 
rebels  was  likely  to  peril  the  non-combatants  in  the  town,  and 
how  inevitably,  from  the  same  cause,  the  old  town  itself,  just 
tumble-down  enough  to  be  historical  and  picturesque,  must 
suffer  from  the  flying  shot  and  shell  that  know  so  little  mercy. 
He  had  hoped,  the  first  surprise  succeeding,  to  take  Culpeper 
against  but  slight  resistance  ;  and  it  was  no  part  of  his  plan 
(it  never  is  part  of  the  plan  of  any  truly  brave  man  !)  to  batter 
the  town  if  that  measure  could  be  avoided  ;  but  the  balances 
and  compensations  of  war  are  appreciable  if  not  gratifying, 
musketry  on  one  side  is  nearly  sure  to  be  answered  in  kind  by 
the  other,  and  artillery  (when  there  happens  to  be  any,  and 
wo  to  the  party  without  the  "  big  guns"  when  the  other  has 
them  at  command  !) — artillery  has  a  very  natural  habit  of  re- 
plying to  the  thunderous  defiance  sent  out  by  its  hostile  kins- 
men. Culpeper,  too  well  defended,  was  not;  the  less  certain  to 
be  taken,  w^iile  it  was  the  more  certain  to  bear  marks  of  the  con- 
flict that  only  the  demolition  of  half  its  buildings  could  erase. 
God  pity  and  help  the  residents  of  any  town  given  up  to 
the  ruthless  passions  of  a  fierce  soldiery — to  plunder  and 
rapine  and  murder, — after  what  is  so  inadequately  described 
as  "taking  by  storm^\f  When  for  the  moment  hell  is  let 
loose  upon  the  earth,  as  if  to  teach  us  that  if  w^e  have  yet 
something  of  the  god  lingering  in  our  fallen  manhood,  we 
have  yet  something  of  the  arch-fiend  remaining  to  show  how 


THE      COWARD.  461 

wo  accompanied  him  iu  his  fall.  When  roofs  blaze  because 
a  reckless  hand  has  dashed  a  torch  therein  in  the  very  wan- 
tonness of  destruction.  When  the  golden  vessels  of  the 
church  service  and  the  sacred  little  memorials  of  happ}'  hours 
in  boudoir  and  bed-room  are  alike  torn  from  their  places, 
dashed  into  pieces  and  ground  under  armed  heels,  as  if  the 
inanimate  objects  bore  a  share  of  the  wrong  of  resistance  and 
could  feel  a  part  of  the  suffering  meted  out  to  it.  When 
murder  is  for  the  time  licensed  and  the  blood  of  the  defender 
of  his  door-stone  and  his  hearth  dabbles  his  gray  hair  on  one 
or  the  other  of  those  sacred  places,  and  there  is  no  thought 
of  punishment  for  the  red  hand,  except  as  God  may  silently 
mete  it  in  the  years  to  come.  When — saddest  and  worst  of 
all, — the  matron  is  outraged  before  the  eyes  of  her  bound  and 
blaspheming  husband  ;  and  young  girls,  the  peach-bloom  of 
maidenhood  not  yet  brushed  from  the  cheek,  are  torn  shriek- 
ing from  the  arms  that  would  shelter  them,  to  be  so  polluted 
and  dishonored  by  a  ruffian  touch  that  but  yesterday  would 
have  seemed  impossible  to  their  dainty  flesh  as  the  rising  up 
of  a  fiend  from  the  lower  pit  to  rend  the  white  garments  of 
one  of  the  redeemed  in  heaven, — so  polluted  and  dishonored 
that  a  prayer  for  the  mercy  of  death  bubbles  up  from  the  lips 
at  the  last  word  before  resistance  becomes  insensibility. 

This  wreck  of  a  "storm"  of  human  license  is  terrible — so 
terrible  that  the  effects  of  the  convulsions  of  nature,  the  tem- 
pest, the  tornado  and  even  the  earthquake,  sink  into  insig- 
nificance beside  them.  Heaven  be  praised  that  during  the 
War  for  the  Union,  called  by  our  English  cousins  so  "fratri- 
cidal," we  have  as  yet  known  no  Badajos  or  even  a  sacking 
of  Pekin  I  But  only  second  to  such  scenes  in  horror  and 
scarcely  second  in  terror,  hav^e  been  some  of  those  supplied 
when  the  battb  issue  of  the  two  armies  was  joined  near  some 
quiet  country  town  before  lying  peaceful  and  inoffensive,  or 
when  military  necessity  has  made  its  houses  temporary  forti- 
fications and  its  streets  the  points  of  desperate  attacks  and  as 
desperato'  defences.     Then  what  crashing  of  shot  and  shell 


462  THE      COWARD. 

through  houses  ;  what  demolition  of  all  that  had  before  been 
sacred  ;  what  huddling  together  of  the  frightened  and  tiio 
defenceless  who  never  before  dreamed  that,  though  war  was 
in  the  land,  it  would  break  so  near  to  them;  what  mad  gather- 
ing of  valuables  and  impotent  preparations  for  flight  that 
would  be  more  dangerous  than  remaining ;  what  whistling 
of  bullets  that  seemed  each  billeted  for  a  defenceless  breast ; 
what  thunderous  discharges  of  cannon  that  made  every  non- 
combatant  limb  quiver  and  every  delicate  cheek  grow  blood- 
less; what  shouts  in  the  street  and  cries  of  terror  and  dismay 
within  doors;  what  trembling  peeps  through  half-closed  shut- 
ters, with  an  imagined  death  even  in  every  such  momentary 
exposure;  what  cowerings  in  cellars  and  hidings  beneath 
piles  of  old  lumber  in  garrets ;  what  reports  of  defeat  or  vic- 
tory to  the  party  that  was  feared  or  favored  ;  what  claspings 
of  children  and  ungovernable  weepings  of  hysteria ;  what 
prayers  and  what  execrations ;  what  breakings-up  and  de- 
structions of  all  that  had  been,  and  what  revelations  of  the 
desolation  that  is  to  be  ! 

Such,  since  the  breaking  out  of  the  rebellion,  has  been  the 
situation  of  many  a  before-peaceful  town,  in  many  a  State  that 
once  rested  happily  under  the  shadow  of  the  Eagle's  wing. 
And  such  was  the  situation  of  one  fated  old  town  that  day, 
when  Gregg  from  the  north,  Kilpatrick  from  the  east  and 
Buford  from  the  south,  came  up  almost  simultaneously  and 
their  forces  charged  recklessly  into  the  streets  of  Culpeper 
Court-House.  The  excitement  and  confusion  in  the  town  at 
once  became  all  that  we  have  so  feebly  endeavored  to  indi- 
cate— women  shrieking  in  terror,  soldiers  groaning  with  their 
wounds,  children  crying  from  fright ;  and  blended  with  these 
and  a  hundred  other  inharmonious  sounds,  the  shouts  in  the 
street,  the  bugle  calle,  the  hissing  of  bullets,  the  rumble  of 
artillery  wheels,  the  broken  thunder  of  the  feet  of  trampling 
horses,  the  occasional  crash  of  half-demolished  houses,  and 
the  hoarse  roar  of  the  batteries  as  they  belched  out  their 
missiles  of  deajth   and   destruction.     Culpeper,  for  a  short 


I  THE      COWARD.  463 

period,  was  a  veritable  pandemonium  in  miniature ;  and  no 
(lotail  can  add  to  the  force  of  that  brief  but  comprehensive 
description. 

Near  the  raih'oad  bridge  spanning  the  little  stream  running 
nearly  through  the  centre  of  the  town,  the  rebels  had  dis- 
covered a  strategic  point  of  no  little  consequence,  and  they 
had  posted  there  a  battery  of  several  pieces,  well  served 
and  annoying  the  advance  of  the  Third  division  very  mate- 
rially. The  battery  seemed  to  be  placed  there,  not  only  to 
obstruct  the  advance  but  to  protect  a  train  of  cars  just  then 
being  loaded  by  the  rebels  above,  with  munitions  and  other 
articles  of  consequence,  preparatory  to  a  start  down  the  rail- 
road southward.  Battery  D.,  Second  New  York  Artillery, 
ordered  for  that  service,  ran  up  its  sections  at  a  gallop,  un- 
limbered  and  poured  in  shot  an^l  shell,  grape  and  canister 
upon  the  train,  in  such  disagreeable  rapidity  as  sent  the  half 
loaded  cars  away  towards  the  Rapidan  with  all  the  speed 
that  could  be  suddenly  mustered.  Still  the  battery  at  the 
bridge  remained,  firing  rapidly  and  cutting  up  the  head  of 
Kil Patrick's  column  in  a  manner  calculated  to  make  the 
General  gnash  his  teeth  in  indignation.  The  space  to  the 
bridge  was  uphill,  accordingly  raked  downward  by  the  rebel 
fire  ;  the  bridge  itself  was  narrow  and  the  footing  for  horses 
seriously  damaged  by  the  railroad  tracks  that  crossed  it  with 
their  switches  and  lines  of  slippery  iron.  Still  it  was  known 
that  that  bridge  must  be  cleared,  at  any  cost,  or  the  advance 
through  Culpeper  would  be  a  most  bloody  one  if  accomplished 
at  all.  Just  as  Kilpatrick  was  about  to  order  a  charge  of 
cavalry  to  clear  that  bridge  and  if  possible  capture  the  pieces, 
his  intention  seemed  to  be  anticipated  and  a  squadron  of  Stuart's 
cavalry  rode  down  and  took  post,  dismounted,  behind  the  bat- 
tery, in  position  to  support,  while  three  or  four  companies  of 
rebel  riflemen  followed,  ready  to  do  deadly  execution  with 
their  pieces  against  any  troops  attempting  to  charge,  and  to 
fall  upon  that  force  with  resistless  fury  at  the  moment  of  their 
weakness,  if  the  guns  should  be  ridden  over  I     No  pleasant 


464  THE      COWARD. 

prospect,  as  the  Sussex  raider  thought,  and  for  a  moment  he 
apparently  wavered  in  intention,  while  the  battery  played 
heavily  and  every  instant  saw  one  or  more  of  his  best  troopers 
biting  the  dust  of  the  causeway  below. 

But  this  momentary  indecision,  whether  or  not  it  would 
have  continued  much  longer  of  his  own  volition,  was  not  des- 
tined to  do  so  when  the  will  of  another  came  into  play.  A 
horseman  dashed  rapidly  over  to  the  spot  where  Kilpatrick 
was  momentarily  halted,  from  Pleasanton  a  few  hundreds  of 
yards  away,  running  a  fearful  gauntlet  of  the  enemy's  fire,  as 
he  did  so,  from  a  battery  that  had  just  wheeled  into  position 
and  opened  down  a  narrow  cross-street  to  the  left, — spoke  a 
few  quick  words  to  the  General  and  then  awaited  the  move- 
ment that  wad- to  follow.  And  it  was  not  long  that  he  or  the 
commander  who  sent  him  receded  to  wait.  The  command  had 
been  :  "  Clear  that  bridge  and  take  the  battery,  at  all  hazards  !'* 
and  Kilpatrick  only  needed  that  support  of  his  own  judgment 
to  order  a  charge  which  he  would  have  been  best  pleased,  if 
he  could  only  have  gone  back  to  be  a  Colonel  for  a  few 
moments,  to  lead  in  person.  His  eye  rolled  questioningly 
over  the  Third  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  rapid  words  of 
command  followed.  Only  a  certain  number  of  cavalry  could 
be  employed  upon  that  dangerous  service,  without  making 
the  carnage  greater  by  throwing  the  troopers  literally  in  the 
way  of  each  other  ;  and  it  was  the  Second  New  York,  Harris 
Light  Guard,  a  troop  which  had  already  won  honor  on  every 
field  touched  by  the  hoofs  of  their  horses, — called  out  for  that 
quick,  sharp,  perilous  duty  that  every  squadron  in  the  com- 
mand probably  coveted. 

The  gallant  Second  received  the  order  with  loud  cheers 
that  came  nigh  to  imitating  the  well-known  rebel  fox-hunt- 
ing yell,  for  some  of  their  best  fellows  had  fallen  ingloriously 
and  the  human  tiger  was  not  only  unchained  but  set  on 
horseback.  They  formed  column  by  fours  with  a  rapidity 
which  told  of  the  fierce  hunger  of  conflict ;  and  when  the 
bugles  rang  out  the  charge,  the  dusty  and   smoke-stained 


THE      COWARD.  465 

riders  returned  their  now-uscloss  carbines  to  their  slings, 
drew  sabres,  and  driving  their  spurs  rowel  deep  into  the 
flanks  of  horses  that  seemed  ahnost  as  anxious  as  themselves, 
dashed  forward  towards  the  bridge.  Their  ringing  shouts 
did  not  cease  as  they  galloped  on,  and  their  sword-blades,  if 
they  grew  thinner  in  number,  still  gleamed  as  brightly  as 
ever  in  the  sunlight,  as  they  measured  that  narrow  but  fatal 
space,  while  round  after  round  of  grape  and  canister,  carbine- 
bullets,  musket-balls  and  rifle-shots,  burst  into  their  faces  and 
mowed  down  their  flanks  as  they  swept  on.  Saddles  were 
emptied,  horses  went  down  with  cries  of  pain  more  fearful 
than  any  that  man  can  utter,  and  brave  men  went  headlong 
into  the  dust  from  which  they  would  never  rise  again  in  life. 
But  the  progress  of  the  charging  squadron  did  not  seem  to  be 
delayed  a  moment.  The  rebel  gunners  of  the  battery  were 
reloading  for  yet  one  more  discharge,  when,  just  in  the  midst 
of  that  operation,  over  the  bridge  and  upon  them  burst  the 
head  of  that  column  w^hich  seemed  as  if  nothing  in  the  way 
of  human  missiles  had  power  to  stay  it.  Before  the  gray  and 
begrimed  cannoniers  could  withdraw  their  rammers  the 
troopers  were  in  their  midst.  Then  followed  that  fierce  cut- 
ting and  thrusting  of  artillery  swords  and  cavalry  sabres,  that 
interchange  of  revolver-shots  and  crushing  of  human  bones 
under  the  feet  of  trampling  horses,  incident  to  the  taking  of 
any  battery  that  is  sharply  attacked  and  bravely  defended. 
A  little  of  this,  but  still  under  heavy  fire  from  behind, — and 
the  guns  were  captured,  with  all  their  men  and  horses  left 
alive. 

And  yet  the  work  of  the  Second  New  York  in  that  quarter 
was  by  no  means  finished.  Thatsteady  and  murderous  fire  con- 
tinued from  up  the  street,  as  the  infantry  and  the  dismounted 
cavalry  of  the  support  fell  back  ;  and  it  was  only  by  one  more 
sweeping  charge  that  the  annoyance  could  be  removed. 
Scarcely  any  one  knew  whence  came  the  voice  that  ordered 
that  second  charge,  but  the  blood  of  the  troopers  was  up  and 
they  made  it  gallantly.  In  three  minutes  thereafter  a  brokeu 
29 


466  THE      COWARD. 

and  flying  mass,  far  up  the  street,  was  all  that  remained  of 
the  supporting  force ;  but  a  fearfull}^  diminished  number  of 
the  cavahymen  rode  back  to  assist  in  sending  the  captured 
battery  to  the  rear.  We  shall  have  occasion,  presently,  to 
know  something  more  of  these  two  charges,  undoubtedly 
the  most  spirited  events  of  a  day  on  which  all  the  Union 
troops  and  many  of  the  rebels  reflected  honor  upon  the  causes 
they  supported. 

Immediately  after  the  clearing  of  the  bridge  a  gallant  dash 
was  made  by  Gen.  Custer,  the  "  boy  general  with  the  golden- 
locks"  (the  man  who  has  made  a  solemn  vow,  it  is  said,  nevei 
to  shorten  those  locks  until  he  rides  victoriously  into  Rich- 
mond) leading  the  charge  in  person,  with  portions  of  the  First 
Vermont  and  First  Michigan  cavalry,  against  a  section  of  a 
battery,  stationed  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  beyond  the 
bridge  and  within  a  hundred  or  two  yards  of  the  front  of 
Stuart's  main  body.  These  pieces  were  worked  by  as  obsti- 
nate a  set  of  gray-backs  as  ever  rammed  home  a  rebel 
cartridge  ;  and  the  gunners,  defiant  of  Custer's  detour  to  the 
left  to  escape  a  direct  raking  fire,  and  apparently  relying  upon 
the  main  body  lying  so  near  them,  continued  to  load  and  fire 
until  the  federal  leader  and  his  men  were  literally  on  the  top 
of  the  pieces  and  fairly  riding  them  under  foot.  Guns  and 
caissons  were  taken,  while  the  support  relied  upon  seemed  to 
be  so  paralyzed  by  the  daring  of  the  whole  affair  as  scarcely 
to  offer  any  resistance, — the  horses  hitched  to  the  pieces, 
the  guns  limbered  up,  and  the  rebel  gunners  even  forced  to 
mount  and  drive  their  lost  cannon  to  join  the  others  in  the 
rear  ! 

A  considerable  rebel  force  of  cavalry,  artillery  and  infantry 
were  by  this  time  in^fuU  retreat  below  the  town,  along  the 
line  of  the  Orange  and  Alexandria  railroad ;  and  the  Fifth 
New  York  cavalry  were  sent  in  pursuit.  The  gallant  troopers 
of  the  Fifth  charged  at  a  gallop  the  moment  they  came 
within  sweeping  distance  of  the  foe,  but  the  high  embank- 
ment of  the  road  broke  the  charge,  and  the  detour  neces- 


TITS      COWARD.  467 

snry  to  make  a  more  advautaji^ooiiR  a])proacli  deprived  the 
gallant  boys  of  their  half-won  laurels  and  allowed  the  fly- 
ing enemy  to  escape. 

While  Kilpatrick  was  thus  engaged,  Buford  and  Gregg, 
with  the  First  and  Second,  had,  been  by  no  means  idle. 
Dashing  into  the  town,  each  from  his  chosen  direction,  the 
troopers  of  each  leaped  barricades  and  drove  the  rebels  before 
them  wherever  encountered  upon  open  ground ;  and  a  part  of 
the  force  of  either  division,  dismounted,  skirmished  from  cor- 
ner to  corner  and  dislodged  the  sharp-shooters  one  by  one 
from  all  their  holes  and  hiding-places.  Sometimes  stubbornly 
resisted,  at  others  seeming  to  have  no  foe  worthy  of  their 
steel,  the  three  divisions  won  their  Avay  through  the  old  town; 
and  the  cavalry  of  Stuart,  up  to  that  time  so  often  declared 
invincible,  were  at  last  driven  pell-mell  out  of  Culpeper  and 
back  to  the  momentary  refuge  of  Pony  Mountain.  Even 
there  they  were  again  dislodged,  the  First  Michigan  cavalry 
accomplishing  a  feat  which  might  have  surprised  even  Hal- 
stead  Rowan  of  this  chronicle — routing  a  whole  brigade  by 
charging  up  a  hill  so  steep  that  some  of  the  riders  slipped 
backwards  over  the  tails  of  their  horses,  their  saddles  bearing 
them  company  ! 

The  town  of  Culpeper  was  finally  occupied  at  one  o'clock, 
P.M.  ;  and  not  many  hours  after  the  ridge  behind  it  and  Pony 
Mountain  were  in  the  hands  of  the  dashing  cavalrymen.  Re- 
treating towards  the  Rapidan,  they  were  pursued  towards 
Raccoon  Ford  on  the  left  and  centre  by  Buford  and  Kilpatrick 
with  the  First  and  Third  divisions,  while  Gregg,  with  the 
Second,  pushed  a  heavy  Rebel  force  before  him  to  Rapidan 
Station.  By  nightfall  the  rebels  had  been  driven  to  the  north 
bank  of  the  Rapidan,  where  both  forces  bivouacked  that  night 
in  line  of  battle. 

Monday  morning  saw  the  recommencement  of  hostilities 
and  the  retreat  of  the  rebels  to  the  south  side  of  the  river, 
leaving  the  federal  forces  to  hold  the  country  between  the 
Rappahannock  and  the  Rapidan,  with  all  the  strategic  points 


468  THE      COWARD. 

therein,  Culpeper included.  Stuart,  it  was  said,  had  often  boasted 
that  "no  Yankee  force  could  drive  him  from  Culpeper!"  and 
if  such  a  boast  was  really  made  and  afterwards  so  signally 
disproved  by  the  "horde  of  Yankee  tailors  on  horseback,"  the 
fact  only  furnishes  one  more  additional  proof  to  Benedick's 
declaration  that  he  would  live  and  die  a  bachelor,  so  soon 
followed  by  his  marriage  with  Beatrice, — that  humanity  is 
very  uncertain  and  that  human  calculations  are  fallible  to  a 
degree  painful  to  contemplate  ! 

Such  were  the  general  features  of  the  crossing  of  the  Bap- 
pahannock  and  the  Battle  of  Culpeper,  one  of  the  sharpest 
cavalry  affairs  of  the  war,  and  perhaps  more  important  as 
illustrating  the  reliability  to  which  the  Union  horse  had 
attained  from  a  beginning  little  less  than  contemptible,  than 
from  the  mere  military  advantage  gained  by  the  movement. 
It  now  becomes  necessary  to  descend  to  a  few  particulars  con- 
nected with  the  event  of  the  day,  and  briefly  to  trace  the  in- 
fluence on  the  fortunes  of  some  of  the  leading  characters  in 
this  narration,  exercised  by  the  advance  of  General  Pleasanton 
and  his  dashing  brigadiers. 

It  has  been  seen  that  at  a  certain  period  of  that  day  the 
division  of  Kilpatrick  was  held  temporarily  in  check  by  the 
rebel  battery  posted  at  the  railroad-bridge,  and  that  for  a  mo- 
ment the  General,  aware  of  the  necessity  of  removing  the 
obstruction  if  the  direct  advance  through  Culpeper  was  to  be 
continued,  yet  hesitated  in  ordering  the  charge  which  must 
be  made  in  the  face  of  such  overwhelming  difficulty,  until  a 
peremptory  direction  from  Pleasanton  left  him  no  option  in  the 
matter.  And  it  is  to  personal  movements  of  that  particular 
period  that  attention  must  at  this  moment  be  directed. 

Just  when  he  made  the  discovery  through  his  field  glass  of 
the  havoc  being  wrought  by  the  rebel  battery  and  the  mo- 
mentary hesitation,  Pleasanton,  who  did  not  happen  to  be  in 
the  best  of  humors  with  reference  to  it,  was  placed  in  the  same 
situation  in  which  "Wellington  for  a  few  moments  found  him- 
aelf  on  the  day  of  Waterloo,  when  he  employed  the  button- 


THE      COAVARD.  469 

bagman  with  the  blue  umbrella  under  his  arm,  to  carry  some 
important  orders.  He  was,  in  short,  out  of  aide-de-camps. 
One  by  one  they  had  been  sent  away  to  different  points,  and 
it  so  chanced,  just  then,  that  none  had  returned.  Something 
very  much  like  an  oath  muttered  between  the  lips  of  the 
impatient  veteran  of  forty,  and  one  exclamation  came  out  so 
that  there  was  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  it : 

"  Nobody  here  when  everybody  is  worst  wanted  I  I  wish 
the  d — 1  had  the  whole  pack  of  thcrii  I" 

"Perhaps  /can  do  what  you  wish,  General." 

The  words  came  from  a  young  man  in  civilian's  dress — 
gray  pants  and  broad-brimmed  felt  hat,  but  with  a  military 
suspicion  in  his  coat  of  light  blue  flannel, — who  stood  very 
near  the  commander,  his  horse's  bridle  over  arm  and  a  large 
field  glass  in  hand,  and  who  had  apparently  been  scanning 
with  much  interest  a  scene  of  blood  in  which  it  was  neither 
his  duty  nor  his  disposition  to  take  part. 

"  You  ?"  and  the  veteran  turned  upon  him,  with  something 
very  like  a  laugh  on  his  lips.  '*  You  ?  Humph  I  Do  you 
know  what  I  want  ?" 

"  Some  one  to  carry  an  order,  I  suppose  !" 

"  Exactly  I  Over  that  causeway,  to  Kilpatrick  at  the 
bridge.  Do  you  see  how  that  flanking  battery  to  the  left  is 
raking  every  thing,  and  the  one  in  front  is  throwing  beyond 
Kil's  position  ?  The  chances  are  about  even  that  the  man 
who  starts  never  gets  there  !     Now  do  you  wish  to  go  ?" 

"  No  objection  on  that  account  I"  was  the  reply  of  the 
young  man,  who  seemed  to  be  on  terms  of  very  easy  intimacy 
with  the  General,  as  indeed  he  was, — a  privileged  visitor,  who 
had  accompanied  him  in  the  advance,  but  eminently  "  unat- 
tached" and  thus  far  neither  fighting  nor  expected  to  fight. 

"  The  d — 1  you  haven't  1     Well, ,  that  is  certainly  cool, 

for  you!  Never  mind — if  you  like  a  little  personal  taste  of 
what  war  really  is,  take  this,"  and  he  scribbled  a  few  words 
on  a  slip  of  paper  on  his  raised  knee — "take  this  and  get  it 
to  Kilpatrick  as  soon  as  you  can.  If  you  do  not  come  back 
again,  I  shall  send  word  to  your  family." 


470  THE      COWARD. 

"  Oh,  yes,  thank  yon,  General ;  but  I  shall  come  back 
again  !"  He  had  swung  himself  into  the  saddle  of  his  gray, 
while  Pleasanton  was  writing,  and  the  veteran  held  the  paper 
for  one  instant  in  his  hand  and  looked  into  his  face  with  a 
strange  interest.  What  he  saw  there  seemed  to  satisfy  him, 
and  he  handed  the  paper  with  a  nod.  The  volunteer  aide- 
de-camp  received  it  with  a  bow,  and  the  next  moment  was 
flying  towards  the  front  of  the  Third,  riding  splendidly,  run- 
ning the  gauntlet  that  has  before  been  suggested,  but  un- 
touched, and  delivering  his  orders  in  very  quick  time  and  at 
emphatically  the  right  moment.  The  important  movement 
which  immediately  followed  has  already  been  narrated,  in  its 
bearing  on  the  result  of  the  day;  but  there  were  other  effects 
not  less  important  when  personal  destinies  are  taken  into  the 
account. 

Gregg,  who  espied  something  on  the  right,  that  was  likely  to  be 
hidden  from  Kilpatrick  until  it  discovered  itself  by  unpleasant 
consequences,  had  sent  over  an  aide  with  a  word  of  warning  ; 
and  nearl}^  at  the  same  moment  when  the  volunteer  messenger 
from  Pleasanton  reached  the  brigadier,  the  officer  from  Gregg 
rode  rapidly  up  from  his  direction.  Both  delivered  their 
messages  in  a  breath,  and  then  both  fell  back  at  a  gesture 
from  the  General.  The  aide  from  Gregg  was  turning  his 
horse  to  ride  back  again  to  his  post,  when  he  caught  a  glance 
at  the  somewhat  strangely  attired  man  who  had  come  in  from 
Pleasanton.  From  his  lower  garments  that  glance  naturally 
went  up  to  his  hat,  and  thence,  by  an  equally  natural  move- 
ment, to  his  face.  The  dark  brows  of  the  officer  bent  darker 
in  an  instant,  and  perhaps  there  was  that  in  his  gaze  which 
the  other  felt,  (there  are  those  who  assert  that  such  things  are 
possible),  for  the  next  instant  there  was  an  answering  glance 
and  another  pair  of  brows  were  knitted  not  less  decidedly. 
Those  two  men  were  serving  (more  or  less)  in  the  same  cause, 
but  they  looked  as  little  as  possible  like  two  warm-hearted 
comrades  in  arms — much  more  as  if  they  would  have  been 
delighted  to  take  each  other  by  the  throat  and  mutually  exert 
that  gentle  pressure  calculated  to  expel  a  life  or  two  ! 


THE      COWARD.  471 

Pleasanton  was  just  calling  out  the  Second  to  take  the  bat- 
tery and  clear  the  bridge.  While  he  was  doing  so,  the  evil 
genius  of  one  of  those  men  drove  them  into  collision.  The 
messenger  from  Gregg,  who  wore  the  shoulder-straps  and 
other  accoutrements  of  a  Captain  on  staff  service,  but  with  a 
cavalry  sabre  at  his  belt, — after  the  pause  of  a  moment  and 
while  the  other  was  still  fixedly  regarding  him,  spurred  his 
horse  close  up  to  the  side  of  the  gray  ridden  by  the  civilian, 
and  accosted  him  in  a  tone  and  with  a  general  manner  that 
he  seemed  to  take  no  pains  to  render  amiable  : 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?" 

"  On  staff  service.  Captain.  How  is  your  head  ?"  was  the 
reply,  with  quite  as  much  of  sneer  in  the  tone  as  the  other 
had  displayed  of  arrogance. 

"  What  do  you  call  yourself  just  now  ? — '  Horace  Town- 
send*  still  ?"  was  the  Captain's  next  inquiry. 

"  To  most  others,  yes  :  to  you,  Captain  Hector  Coles,  just 
now,  I  am — "  and  he  bent  his  mouth  so  close  to  the  ear  of  the 
other  that  he  could  have  no  difficulty  in  hearing  him,  though 
he  spoke  the  last  words  in  a  hoarse  whisper  that  has  even 
escaped  us  I 

"  I  thought  so,  all  the  while  !"  was  the  reply,  an  expression 
of  malignant  joy  crossing  the  face.  "  The  same  infernal  coward 
—I  knew  it !" 

The  face  of  the  man  who  had  been  Horace  Townsend  seemed 
convulsed  by  a  spasm  of  mortal  agony  the  instant  after,  but 
it  gave  place  almost  as  quickly  to  an  expression  of  set,  deadly 
anger,  the  eyes  blazing  and  the  cheeks  livid.  He  leaned 
close  to  the  Captain  and  even  grasped  his  arm  as  if  to  make 
sure  that  he  should  not  get  away  before  he  had  finished  his 
whole  sentence. 

"  Captain  Hector  Coles,"  he  said,  still  in  the  same  low, 
hoarse  voice,  but  so  near  that  the  other  could  easily  hear — 
"you  called  me  the  same  name  five  or  six  weeks  ago  at  the 
Crawford  House,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I  i^roved  that  it  be- 
longed to  yoxiV 


472  THE      COWAKD. 

"  I  told  you  that  I  would  kill  you  some  day  for  that  im- 
pertinence, and  I  will  /"  was  the  reply  of  the  Captain,  terrible 
anger  in  his  face. 

"No — if  you  kill  rae  at  all,  and  I  do  not  think  you  will, — 
it  will  be  because  3^ou  believe  me,  with  a:ood  reason,  something 
more  of  a  favorite  with  a  lady  whose  name  it  is  not  necessary 
to  mention,  than  yourself  1'' 

This  insulting  boast  of  preference  and  allusion  to  Margaret 
Hayley  were  quite  as  well  understood  as  they  needed  to  be. 
There  was  another  livid  cheek,  just  then,  and  a  fierce  answer- 
ing fire  in  the  eye  which  told  how  deeply  the  barb  rankled. 
But  before  the  Captain  could  speak,  to  utter  words  that  must 
have  been  equally  bitter  and  blasphemous,  the  civilian  con- 
tinued : 

"You  challenged  me  for  what  I  said  at  the  White  Moun- 
tains, Captain  Hector  Coles — you  man  with  a  swimming  in 
the  head  !  I  refused  your  challenge  then,  but  I  accept  it 
now.  If  you  are  not  the  coward  you  called  me,  you  will 
fight  me  here  and  instantly  !" 

"  Here  and  now  ?"  These  were  all  the  words  that  the  sur- 
prised and  possibly  horrified  Captain  could  utter. 

"  Exactly  !''  was  the  reply,  the  voice  still  low  and  hoarse  hut 
rapid  and  without  one  indication  of  tremor.  "  I  told  you  that 
I  was  on  staff  service.  So  I  am.  I  have  just  brought  Gen- 
eral Kilpatrick  orders  from  General  Pleasanton  to  clear  that 
bridge  and  take  the  battery  yonder  that  is  doing  us  so  much 
damage.  Ah  !  by  George — there  goes  another  of  our  best 
fellows  !"  This  as  a  round  shot  came  tearing  into  the  ranks 
just  ahead,  killing  one  of  the  troopers  and  his  horse.  Then 
he  resumed,  in  the  same  low  rapid  tone  :  "  You  see  those 
Xew  York  boys  forming  there,  to  do  the  work.  Ride  with 
them  and  with  me,  if  you  dake,  Captain  Hector  Coles,  and 
see  who  goes  furthest !     That  is  my  duel !" 

"  J? — I  am  on  staff  duty — nofc  a  mere  cavalryman  !"  There 
was  hesitation  in  the  voice  and  deadly  pallor  on  the  cheek : 
the  civilian  heard  the  one  and  saw  the  other. 


THE      C  O  W  A  R  U.  473 

"Refuse  to  g^o  with  me  and  fight  out  our  quarrel  in  that 
manner,"  the  excited  voice  went  on,  "'and  by  the  God  who 
made  us  both,  the  whole  army  shall  know  who  is  the  coward  ! 
J\lore — "  and  again  his  mouth  was  very  near  to  the  ear  of  the 
other — ''she  shall  know  it  1" 

There  are  spells  by  which  the  fiend  can  always  be  raised, 
without  much  doubt,  however  troublesome  it  may  be  to  find 
any  means  by  which  to  lay  him  afterwards.  To  Captain 
Hector  Coles  there  was  one  conjuration  irresistible,  and  that 
had  been  used  in  the  present  instance.  Shame  before  the 
whole  army  was  nothing — it  may  be  doubted,  in  fact,  whether 
he  had  not  known  something  of  that  infliction  before  at  least 
a  portion  of  the  army,  and  survived  it  without  difficulty.  But 
shame  before  Margaret  Hayley,  after  the  boasts  he  had  used, 
the  underrating  of  others  in  which  he  had  indulged,  and  the 
worship  of  physical  courage  which  he  knew  to  be  actual!}^  a 
foible  in  her  nature  ? — no,  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of  for 
one  moment  I  Better  wounds  or  death,  out  of  the  way  of 
both  which  he  had  before  so  skilfully  kept,  than  that !  This 
reflection  did  not  occupy  many  seconds,  and  his  heavy  brow 
was  as  black  as  thunder  as  he  turned  short  round  in  the 
saddle  and  almost  hissed  at  his  tempter : 

"  Come  on,  then,  fool  as  well  as  coward,  and  see  how  long 
before  I  will  teach  you  a  less9n  !" 

Horace  Townsend — as  he  must  still  be  called — did  not  say 
another  word  in  reply.  The  Light  Guard  were  by  that  time 
formed  for  the  charge,  and  he  merely  said,  in  the  hearing  of 
all  : 

"  Come — the  Captain  and  I  are  going  to  take  a  ride  with 
the  boys  I     Who  will  lend  me  a  sword  ?" 

The  strange  demand  for  a  moment  drew  general  attention 
to  him,  and  among  other  regards  that  of  Kilpatrick.  The  idea 
of  a  civilian  throwing  himself  into  such  a  charge  seemed  to 
strike  him  at  once,  and  before  one  of  the  orderlies  could  draw 
out  his  weapon  and  present  il,  the  General  had  handed  his, 
with  the  words  : 


474:  T  H  B      C  O  W  A  K  D . 

"  Here  is  mine  ! — Mind  that  you  bring  it  back  again  !" 
Kilpatrick  unslung  his  sword  and  held  up  the  scaVjbard 
with  the  blade,  but  the  new  volunteer  merely  drew  out  the 
blade  with  a  bow  and  driving  spurs  into  his  gray  dashed  for- 
ward to  the  head  of  the  column,  Captain  Hector  Coles  close 
beside  him.  Perhaps  no  two  men  ever  went  into  battle  side 
by  side,  with  precisely  the  same  relative  feelings,  since  carving 
up  men  with  the  broadsword  became  a  profession.  Neither, 
it  seems  almost  certain,  had  the  least  thought  of  devotion  to 
the  country,  of  hatred  to  the  rebellion,  or  even  of  espt^it  du 
corps,  moving  him  to  the  contest.  The  one  was  intent  upon 
revenging  an  insult  received  long  before,  by  getting  the  other 
killed  in  proving  him  a  coward, — and  may  have  had  another 
but  still  personal  motive  :  that  other  was  equally  anxious  to 
keep  up  his  own  reputation  in  the  eyes  of  a  woman,  and  to 
get  removed  out  of  his  way  a  man  whom  he  believed  to  be  a 
rival,  but  who  w^as  really  no  more  in  his  way  than  Shak- 
speare's  nobody  who  **  died  a'  Wednesday."  Both  half  blind 
with  rage  and  hate,  and  both,  therefore — let  the  truth  be  told 
— bad  soldiers  !  Both  following  a  petty  whim  or  facing  death 
as  a  mere  experiment,  and  neither  with  the  most  distant 
thought  of  the  fate  that  rode  close  behind,  to  protect  or  to 
slay,  and  each  alike  inevitably  ! 

Just  then  the  bugle  rang  out,  the  commands  "  Column  for- 
ward !  Trot,  march  I  Gallop,  march  !  Charge  !"  rang  out 
in  quick  succession,  and  away  dashed  the  Second,  with  the 
results  that  have  already  been  foreshadowed  in  the  general 
account  of  the  movement.  But  though  armies  and  the  various 
smaller  bodies  that  form  armies,  are  great  aggregates  of 
manhood,  they  are  something  more  ;  and  who  can  measure, 
in  reading  an  account  of  that  bridge  so  gallantly  carried,  that 
attack  so  splendidly  repulsed,  or  that  point  of  battle  held 
against  every  odds,  with  the  conclusion — "  Our  loss  was  only 
two  hundred  for  two  thousand],  in  killed  and  wounded," — 
who  can  measure,  we  ask,  the  amount  of  personal  suffering  in- 
volved  in    that    movement  and    its  result  ? — who  can  form 


THB      COWAKD.  475 

any  guess  at  the  variety  of  personal  adventure,  depression, 
elevation,  hope,  fear,  delirious  joy  and  maddening  horror, 
going  to  make  up  that  event  spoken  of  so  flippantly  as  one 
great  total  ? 

The  rebel  battery  beyond  the  bridge  had  been  throwing 
round  shot  and  shell,  as  has  already  been  observed,  reaching 
far  beyond  Kilpatrick's  front  and  doing  heavy  damage.  It 
was  inevitable  that  as  the  advance  of  the  attacking  column 
was  seen,  that  fire  should  be  redoubled.  And  before  they 
had  crossed  half  the  intervening  distance  the  rain  of  bullets 
frpm  the  supporting  rebel  riflemen  began  to  blend  with  the 
fall  of  heavier  projectiles,  making  a  very  storm  of  destructive 
missiles,  more  difficult  for  horsemen  to  breast  than  any  op- 
posing charge  of  their  own  weight  could  have  been,  splitting 
heads,  crashing  out  brains,  boring  bodies  full  of  holes  from 
which  the  blood  and  the  life  went  out  together,  and  hurling 
horses  and  riders  to  the  ground  with  such  frequency  that 
wounded  men  had  their  little  remaining  breath  trampled  out 
by  their  own  comrades  and  every  fallen  animal  formed  a  tem- 
porary barricade  over  which  another  fell  and  became  disabled. 
Through  the  air  around  them  rang  the  scream  of  shell  and 
the  shrill  whistle  of  bullets,  blended  with  the  inevitable  cry 
that  rose  as  some  bullet  found  a  fatal  mark,  and  the  roar  of 
agony  when  a  horse  was  hurled  desperately  wounded  and  yet 
living  to  the  ground.  The  shout  with  which  the  troopers 
had  at  first  broken  into  their  charge,  did  not  die  away  ;  and 
it  did  not  cease,  in  fact,  until  the  command  had  done  its  work 
— until  the  battery  was  taken  and  the  supports  scattered  by 
the  supplementary  onset ;  but  with  w-hat  sounds  it  was  blent 
before  the  cavalrymen  reached  the  rebel  guns,  only  those  who 
have  listened  to  the  same  horrible  confusion  of  noises  can 
form  the  most  distant  idea.  To  all  others  the  attempt  at  de- 
scription must  be  as  vague  as  the  thought  of  Armageddon  or 
the  Day  of  Falling  Mountains  I 

If  those  sights  and  sounds  cannot  be  described,  w^ho  shall 
describe  the  sensations  of  those  who  then  for  the  first  time 


476  THE      COWARD. 

rode  point-blank  into  the  very  face  of  death  ?  Xot  wc,  cer- 
tainly. The  very  man  who  has  experienced  them  can  tell 
no  more,  one  hour  after,  of  what  existed  at  the  time,  than 
one  moment's  rift  in  a  drifting  cloud  reveals  of  the  starlit 
heaven  above. 

AVhat  Captain  Hector  Coles  really  felt  when  first  mcetinj^ 
that  iron  and  leaden  storm  so  unlike  the  usual  accompani- 
ments of  his  "  staff  service,"  may  be  guessed  but  can  never  be 
known.  Ke  rode  on  gallantly,  at  least  for  a  time  :  that  was 
quite  enough. 

What  the  ci-devant  Horace  Townsend  experienced  may  be 
easily  enough  indicated,  and  in  one  word — madness.  He- 
was  stark,  raving  mad  !  The  anger  felt  a  few  moments 
before;  the  novelty  of  the  position  ;  the  motion  of  a  horse 
that  bore  him  nobly  :  the  sword,  that  was  no  holiday  weapon 
but  a  thing  of  might  and  death,  clasped  by  his  unaccustomed 
but  nervous  hand  ;  the  shouts  of  fierce  Ijravery,  the  groans  of 
anguish  and  the  scream  of  missiles  ;  above  all,  the  rousing 
for  the  first  time  of  that  human  tiger  which  sleeps  within 
most  of  us  until  the  fit  moment  of  awakening  comes — no 
witches'  cauldron  on  a  blasted  heath  ever  brewed  such  a 
mixture  to  craze  a  human  brain,  as  that  he  was  so  suddenly 
drinking ;  and  it  may  be  said  that  his  rational  self  knew 
nothing  of  what  followed.  He  was  riding  on — it  might  have 
been  on  horseback  on  the  solid  earth,  in  a  fiery  chariot 
through  the  air,  or  on  the  crest  of  a  storm-wave  at  sea — he 
could  have  formed  no  idea  which.  When  he  came  within 
striking  distance  of  the  foe,  he  was  swinging  that  heavy 
sword  of  Kilpatrick's,  at  something,  everything,  he  knew  not 
what,  that  seemed  to  stand  in  his  way.  Nothing  appeared 
to  hurt  him,  nothing  to  stop  him  or  the  gallant  gray  he  rode. 
There  was  a  red  mist  over  his  eyes,  and  the  thunder  of 
twenty  judgments  rang  in  his  ears  :  he  knew  no  more.  He 
was  mad,  stark  mad — so  drunk  with  the  wine  of  human  blood 
and  the  fiendish  joy  of  battle,  that  the  powers  of  teaven  might 
have  looked  down  in  pity  on  him  as  upon   a  new  and  better 


THE      COW  A  ED.  477 

developed  descendant  of  the  original  Cain,  smiting  all  his 
brothers  to  a  death  that  could  not  satisfy  the  hot  thirst  of  his 
evil  soul. 

Only  once  he  seemed  to  be  for  a  moment  clearly  conscious. 
It  was  when  they  rode  full  upon  the  battery,  trampling  down 
men  and  horses  and  sabring  every  thing  that  had  life,  but 
under  a  fire  which  seemed  to  rain  from  the  opened  windows 
of  hell.  He  saw  a  man  who  had  thus  far  kept  at  his  side, 
recoil,  rein  his  horse  backward,  leap  over  the  fallen  friends 
and  foes  who  barred  his  flight,  and  dash  down  the  track  to- 
wards the  bridge.  He  saw,  and  knew  Captain  Hector  Coles  ; 
and  in  his  madness  he  had  reason  enough  left  to  shout  "Aha  1 
Coward  1  Coward  I"  and  then  the  red  mist  closed  again  over 
his  eyes  and  he  fought  on.  He  did  not  see  what  followed 
before  the  flying  man  reached  the  bridge — the  fragment  of  a 
shell  that  struck  him  in  the  back  and  literally  tore  him  in  pieces, 
horse  and  rider  going  down  and  lying  stone  dead  together. 

He  could  not  have  told,  under  oath,  who  gave  the  command 
for  that  supplemental  charge  upon  the  supporting  force.  And 
yet  his  tongue  uttered  it,  and  he  was  in  the  front,  still  wav- 
ing his  sword  through  the  red  mist  and  letting  it  fall  with  de- 
moniac force  upon  every  thing  that  stood  in  his  way, — when 
the  last  hope  of  the  rebels  was  thus  broken.  He  had  known  but 
little,  most  of  the  time :  after  that  he  knew  literally  nothing  ex- 
cept that  his  fierce  joy  had  turned  to  pain.  As  if  through 
miles  of  forest  he  heard  the  notes  of  the  bugles  sounding  the 
recall ;  and  he  had  a  dim  consciousness  of  hearing  the  soldiers 
speaking  of  him  in  words  that  would  have  given  him  great 
pleasure  had  he  been  alive  to  ^appreciate  them  !  Then  he 
was  back  at  the  bridge.  Kilpatrick  was  there,  somebody 
cheered,  and  the  General  held  out  his  hand  to  him.  He  tried 
to  hand  him  back  the  sword  that  had  done  such  good  service, 
said ;  "  I  have  brought  it — back — "  and  spoke  no  more.  Then 
and  only  then,  as  he  fell  from  his  blown  and  beaten  gray,  they 
knew  that  his  first  charge  bad  a  likelihood  of  being  his  last — 
that  a  Minie  bullet,  received  so  long  before  that  some  of  the. 


478  THE      COWARD. 

blood  la}'  dried  upon  his  coat,  had  passed  throiiir]i  hin^  f,.oni 
breast  to  back, — thank  God  not  from  back  to  breast! — so  near 
the  heart  that  even  the  surgeon  could  not  say  whether  it  had 
touched  or  missed  it  I 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 


Once  more  at  West  Philadelphia — September  and  Change 
■ — Last  glimpses  of  Kitty  Hood  and  Dick  Compton — 
Robert  Brand  and  his  Invited  Guest — The  News  of 
Death — Old  Espeth  Graeme  as  a  Seeress — The  Des- 
patch FROM  Alexandria — The  Quest  of  Brand  and 
Margaret  Hayley. 

Hurrying  rapidly  towards  its  close,  this  narration  must  be- 
come yet  more  desultory  and  at  times  even  more  fragmentary, 
than  it  has  been  in  the  past.  The  seven-league  boots  of  story 
must  be  pulled  on,  however  unwillingly,  and  many  a  spot  that 
w^ould  have  been  lingered  lovingly  over  at  the  commencement 
of  the  journey,  cleared  now  with  a  glance  and  a  bound.  The  few 
pages  that  remain,  in  fact,  may  justify  a  change  in  the  figure, 
appearing  more  like  lightning  glimpses  from  railroad-car  win- 
dows than  connected  and  leisurely  views  of  the  whole  land- 
scape of  story. 

September  on  West  Philadelphia,  where  it  seems  but  yes- 
terday, though  really  three  months  ago,  that  we  saw  the  fair 
June  morning  and  inhaled  the  perfume  of  the  sweet  June 
roses.  Those  roses,  the  companions  in  life  and  death  of  that 
with  which  Margaret  Hayley  was  toying  on  the  morning  when 
she  met  the  crushing  blow  of  her  life, — had  long  since  sighed 
out  their  last  breath  of  fragrance  and  faded  away,  to  be  fol- 
lowed now  by  the  bright  green  leaves  amid  which  they  had 
clustered  and  peeped  and  hidden.     The  waving  grain  fields 


THE      COWARD.  479 

which  had  formed  so  pleasant  a  portion  of  the  June  landscape, 
were  changed  as  much,  though  less  sadly.  Bright  golden 
wheat  that  had  formed  part  of  it,  lay  heaped  in  the  farmer's 
granaries ;  and  puffed  loaves  with  crisp  brown  crust,  made 
from  that  which  had  still  further  progressed  in  its  round  of 
usefulness  to  man,  lay  on  the  baker's  counter.  There  wag 
ghort  stubble  where  the  grain  had  waved,  and  over  it  the 
second  growth  of  clover  was  weaving  its  green  mantle  of  con- 
cealment. In  the  peach  orchards  the  fruit  hung  ripe  to  tempt 
the  fingers ;  the  apples  were  growing  more  golden  amid  the 
masses  of  leaves  where  they  coyly  sheltered  'themselves  from 
the  sun  ;  and  on  the  garden  trellises  there  already  began  to  be 
dots  of  purple  among  the  amber  green  of  the  grape  clusters. 
There  was  less  of  bright,  glossy  green  in  the  foliage — nature's 
summer  coat  had  been  some  time  worn  and  began  to  give 
tokens  of  the  rain  and  wind  and  sun  it  had  encountered.  The 
birds  sang  in  the  branches,  but  their  song  seemed  more  staid 
and  less  sprightly,  as  if  they  too  had  felt  the  passage  of  the 
months,  grown  older,  and  could  be  playful  children  no  more. 
Occasionally  the  long  clarionet  chirp  of  a  locust  would  break 
out  and  trill  and  die  away  upon  the  air,  telling  of  fading  sum- 
mer and  the  decline  of  life  so  sweetly  and  yet  so  sadly  that  decay 
became  almost  a  glory.  The  mellow,  golden  early  afternoon 
of  the  year,  as  June  had  been  its  late  morning — not  less 
beautiful,  perhaps,  but  oh  how  immeasurably  less  sprightly 
and  bewitching — how  much  more  calm,  sober  and  subduing  I 

Nature  moves  onward,  and  humanity  seldom  stands  still, 
if  it  does  not  outstrip  the  footsteps  of  the  mother.  Something 
of  the  changes  that  had  fallen  during  the  preceding  three 
months  upon  that  widely  varied  group  of  residents  beyond  the 
Schuylkill  who  have  supplied  characters  to  this  narration,  is 
already  known :  what  remains  may  be  briefly  told  at  this 
stage  and  in  the  closing  events  soon  to  follow.  Of  those 
changes  to  Eleanor  Hill,  Nathan  Bladesden  and  Dr.  Pomeroy, 
directly;  of  those  to  the  members  of  the  Brand  household,  yet 
sooner ;  of  those  to  two  minor  characters  who  will  make  no 


480  THE      COWAKD. 

further  appearance  upon  the  stage  during  this  life-drama,  at 
once.  Let  that  two  be  Dick  Compton,  farmer,  and  Kitty  Hood, 
schoolmistress.  The  latter  yet  managed  her  brood  of  trouble- 
some children,  who  still  sailed  their  vessels  that  had  succeeded 
to  the  evanescent  three-master  ''Snorter,  of  Philadelphia,"  at 
"playtime,  in  the  little  pond  before  the  rural  school-house,  and 
performed  other  juvenile  operations  by  sea  and  shore  ;  but  a 
great  change  had  fallen  upon  the  merry,  self-willed  little  girl 
with  the  brown  eyes  and  the  wavy  brown  hair.  The  school 
had  a  mistress,  but  that  mistress  had  a  muder — a  sort  of 
"  power  behind  the  throne"  not  seldom  managed  by  one  sex 
or  the  other,  towards  all  persons  "in  authority."  Xo  bick- 
erings at  the  school-house  door,  to  be  afterwards  forgotten  in 
explanations  and  kisses,  now.  Richard  Compton  found  his 
way  there,  occasionally  and  perhaps  oftener,  but  he  always 
came  in  at  once  instead  of  the  school-mistress  going  out  to 
meet  him  with  a  bashful  down-casting  of  the'eyes  and  a  pretty 
flush  of  modesty  upon  the  cheek ;  and  he  made  so  little  con- 
cealment about  the  visits  that  he  often  managed  them  so  as 
to  wait  until  school  was  dismissed  and  then  walked  all  the 
way  home  with  her !  If  the  young  lovers  yet  had  secrets, 
they  found  some  other  place  than  the  neighborhood  of  the 
school-house  door,  for  their  utterance.  And  the  big  girls  and 
the  bigger  boj^s,  who  used  to  enjoy  such  multitudes  of  sly  gibes 
at  the  school-mistress  and  her  "  beau,"  had  lost  all  their  ma- 
terial of  amusement.  The  very  last  attempt  at  jocularity  in 
that  direction  had  been  some  time  before  effectually  "squelched" 
by  the  dictum  of  the  biggest  boy  in  school :  **  You  boys,  jest 
stop  peeking  at  'em  !  He  ain't  her  beau  no  more — he's  her 
husband  ;  and  you  jest  let  'em  do  what  they're  a  mind  to  !" 

That  is  the  fact,  precisely — no  less  assured  because  ap- 
proached with  a  little  necessary  circumlocution.  Dick  Comp- 
ton had  come  back  from  Gettysburgh  with  the  Reserves,  un- 
wounded  and  a  hero.  Carlton  Brand  was  gone,  and  the  only 
object  of  jealousy  removed.  And  before  Kitty  had  quite 
emerged  from  her  "valley  of  humiliation"  at  the  unfortunate 


THE      COWARD.  ^^^ 


slap  and  T,npatriotic  upbraiding   she  found    t  too    ate  to 
emerge  at  all.     Tl>o  wedding-day  had  been  set  and  the  mar- 
riJeteken  plac,  almost  before  she  had  any  idea  that  sueh 
i  were  in  immediate  eontemplation ,     Kitty  Hood  was 
"Mrs  Riehard  Compton,"  and  that  was  the  seeret  of  the 
Vis  ts  no  longer  stolen  and  the  unabashed  walk.ng  home  t  - 
eether      Xot  that  the  visits  of  the   young  farmer  to  the 
flol  exeited  no  commotion,  now-a-days,  but  that  the  eon>- 
n  otion  was  of  a  different  character.     All  the  b,g  boys  and 
Lne  of  the  big  girls  hated  him,  as  he  strode  up  the  .s  e 
with  his  broad,  hearty:  '"Most  ready  to  go  ton-e  Kitty- 
and  his  proprietory  taking  possession  of  her  with  h.s  eyes 
hated  him  because  he  had  to  some  extent  come  between  her 
and  them,  and  because  there  was  a  rumor  that  "  after  Xov  m- 
ber  he  was  not  going  to  allow  her  to  keep  school  any  mo  e^ 
Perhaps  there  were  good  reasons  for  th,s  resolut.on,  mto 
which  we  shall  certainly  make  no  more  attempt  to  pry  than 
was  made  by  the  big  boys  themselves !     God's  ^'essmg  on 
the  young  couple,  with  as  much  content  in  the  farm-house 
as  can  well  fall  to  the  lot  of  a  small  indefinite  number,_and 
with  as  few  misunderstandings,  coldnesses  and  jealousies  as 
may  be  deemed  necessary  by  the  powers  that  preside  over 
Irried  life,  to  fit  them  for  that  life  in  which  "they  ne.Uier 
xnarrynor  are  given  in  marriage  I"     And  so  «-*  M  .  and 
Mrs.  Kiehard  Compton,  for  whom  we  have  done  all  tha    the 
friend  and  the  minister  could  do,  leaving  Providence  and  the 
doctor  to  take  care  of  the  remainder. 

That  matter  properly  di^^  of,  it  becomes  necessary  to' 
visit  the  house  of  Robert  Brand  once  more,  on  the  morning 
of  Friday  the  eighteenth  day  of  September,  after  an  absence 
from  it  of  nearly  the  three  months  before  designated.  Change 
here  too.  Besides  whatever  might  have  been  wrought  in  the 
mast'er  of  the  house  during  that  period,  of  which  we  shal  be 
soon  advised,  there  had  been  a  marked  difference  wrough  in 
the  relations  sustained  by  good,  warm-hearted,  sisterly,  darling 
30 


482  THE      COWARD. 

little  Elsie.  There  had  been  no  return  to  the  house,  of  the 
old  family  physician,  first  expatriated,  so  to  speak,  by  word 
of  mouth,  and  then  bull-dogged  and  threatened  with  the  pro- 
trusion of  loaded  muskets  from  convenient  windows  and  the 
application  of  the  strong  arms  of  old  Elspeth  Graeme  who  could 
handle  the  bull-dog.  The  doctor's-bill  had  long  before  been 
settled,  and  (let  us  put  the  whole  truth  upon  record)  spent ! 
Then  Robert  Brand  had  been  again  seized  with  terrible  ill- 
ness and  sufifering,  rendering  a  physician  necessary  ;  and  what 
resource  was  left  except  the  before-despised  professional  ser- 
vices of  Dr.  James  Holton  ?  None  whatever.  So  the  old 
man  thought  and  so  Elsie  Brand  knew.  Result,  Dr.  James 
Holton  had  suddenly  found  himself,  in  July,  the  medical  ad- 
viser of  the  Brands,  and  the  adviser,  mental,  moral  and  medi- 
cal, of  Elsie.  He  had  since  so  remained,  seeming  to  do  mar- 
vels at  re-establishing  the  shattered  constitution  of  the  invalid 
and  setting  him  once  more  on  his  natural  feet,  and  with  a 
pleasant  prospect  that  all  the  difficulties  were  smoothed  out 
of  the  way  of  his  eventual  union  with  Elsie,  when  a  little 
more  time  and  a  little  enlarged  practice  should  make  their 
marriage  advisable.  And  Elsie  had  grown  almost  happy 
once  more — quite  happy  in  the  regard  of  a  good  man  whom 
she  loved  with  all  the  warmth  of  the  big  heart  in  her  plump 
little  body,  and  yet  restless,  nervous  and  tearful  when  she 
thought  of  the  brother  cherished  so  dearly,  of  his  broken  love, 
bis  alienated  father,  his  absence  in  a  strange  land,  and  the 
probability  that  she  could  never  again  lay  her  golden  head 
upon  his  breast  and  look  up  into  his  eyes  as  to  the  noblest 
and  most  godlike  of  them  all. 

At  a  little  before  noon  on  that  September  morning,  a  single 
figure  was  moving  slowly  backward  and  forward,  up  and  down 
the  length  of  the  garden  walk  in  the  rear  of  the  house  of 
Robert  Brand,  the  t-#3llises  of  the  grapery  above  and  on 
either  side,  for  nearly  the  whole  distance,  flecking  the  autumn 
sunshine  that  fell  on  the  walk  and  on  the  moving  figure,  while 
from  the  vines  themselves  peeped  the  thick  clusters  of  amber 


'the    coward.  483 

fruit  upon  whicli  the  purple  bloom  was  just  beginning  to  throw 
a  hint  of  October  and  luscious  ripeness.  Late  flowers  bloomed 
in  the  walks  and  borders  on  either  side  ;  occasional!}^  a  bird 
sent  up  its  quiet  and  contented  twitter  from  the  top  of  the 
vine  where  it  was  tasting  a  premature  grape  ;  a  cicala's 
chirp  rang  feebly  out,  swelled  up  to  a  volume  that  lilled  the 
whole  garden,  then  died  away  again,  an  indefinable  feeling  of 
stillness  seeming  to  lie  in  the  very  sound.  The  sunlight  was 
golden,  the  sky  perfectly  cloudless,  the  air  balmy  and  indo- 
lent ;  beneath  the  trellis  and  beside  the  walk  two  long  rustic 
settees  combined  with  the  wooing  air  and  beckoned  to  closed 
eyes,  day-dreams  and  repose  ;  and  yet  the  very  opposite  of 
repose  was  expressed  in  the  appearance  and  movement  of 
that  single  figure. 

It  was  that  of  Robert  Brand,  three  months  older  than  wo 
saw  him  in  the  early  summer,  far  less  an  invalid  than  he 
had  been  at  that  time,  as  evidenced  by  the  absence  of  his 
swathed  limb  and  supporting  cane,  yet  more  broken  within 
that  period  than  most  men  break  in  ten  twelvemonths — more 
than  he  had  himself  broken  before  in  the  same  period  of  his 
severest  years  of  bodily  suffering.  Something  of  the  iron 
expression  of  the  mouth  was  gone,  and  in  its  place  were 
furrowed  lines  of  suffering  that  the  torture  of  the  body  could 
scarcely  have  imprinted  there  without  the  corresponding 
agony  of  the  mind  ;  he  was  more  stooped  in  the  shoulders 
than  he  had  been  when  before  observed  ;  and  down  the  side- 
hair  that  showed  from  beneath  his  broad  hat — hair  that  had 
been  fast  but  evenly  changing  from  gray  to  white,  there  now 
lay  great  streaks  of  finger  thickness,  white  as  the  driven 
snow  and  in  painful  contrast  with  the  other, — such  streaks 
as  are  not  often  made  in  hair  or  beard  except  by  the  pressure 
of  terrible  want,  a  great  sorrow,  or  a  month  of  California 
fever.  This  was  not  all — he  walked  with  head  dejectedly 
bent,  and  hands  beneath  the  skirts  of  his  coat;  and  when  he 
glanced  up  for  a  moment  it  could  be  seen  that  his  lip  trembled 
and  the  eye  had  a  sad,  troubled  expression  that  might  have 


484  THE      COWARD 

told  of  tears  past,  tears  to  corae,  or  a  feeling  far  too  absorbing 
for  either.  Alas  ! — the  old  man  was  indeed  sufferinjar.  The 
shame  of  a  life  had  been  followed  by  its  sorrow.  He  had  erred 
terribly  in  meeting  the  one,  and  paid  the  after  penalty  :  bow 
could  he  muster  fortitude  enough  to  meet  the  other  ? 

To  him  old  Elspeth  Graeme,  large-faced,  massive-framed, 
and  powerful  looking  as  of  old,  with  a  countenance  no  more 
changed  during  the  preceding  three  months  than  a  granite 
boulder  in  the  mountains  might  have  been  affected  by  a  little 
wind  and  storm  during  the  same  lapse  of  time.  Behind  her 
Carlo,  who  since  the  disappearance  of  his  young  master 
seemed  to  have  found  no  one  else  except  the  old  Scottish 
woman  who  could  pretend  to  exercise  any  control  over  him, 
and  who  consequently  had  attached  himself  to  her  almost 
exclusively.  The  master,  who  was  making  one  of  his  turns 
up  the  walk,  saw  her  as  she  emerged  from  the  house,  and 
met  her  as  she  approached,  with  inquiry  in  face  and  voice. 

"Well?" 

"  Stephen  has  just  come  ben  with  the  carriage,  and  the 
leddy  is  in  the  house,  though  the  Laird  kens  what  ye'r 
wantin'  of  her  here,  ava  !" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  woman  !  When  I  need  your  opinion 
I  will  ask  you  for  it !"  This  in  a  tone  very  much  like  that 
of  the  Robert  Brand  of  old,  in  little  squabbles  of  the  same 
character.  Then  with  the  voice  much  softened  :  "  Is  Mar- 
garet Hayley  in  the  house,  do  you  say  ?" 

"  'Deed  she  is,  then,  and  she'll  just  be  tired  of  waiting  for 
ye,  as  the  lassie's  gone,  gin  ye  dinna  haste  a  bit !" 

"  I  will  come — no,  ask  her  to  step  into  the  garden  ;  I  will 
see  her  here." 

"  He's  gettin'  dafter  than  ever,  I'm  thinkin',  to  invite  a 
born  leddy  out  into  the  garden  to  see  him,  instead  of  ganging 
in  till  her  as  he  should  !"  muttered  the  old  serving-woman  as 
she  turned  away  to  obey  the  injunction,  and  in  that  way 
satisfying,  for  the  time,  her  part  of  the  inevitable  quarrel. 
The  moment  after  the  back  door  of  the  house  opened  again, 


THE      COWARD.  485 

and  Margaret  Ilayley  came  out  alone.  Stately  as  ever  in 
step,  though  perhaps  a  little  slower;  the  charm  of  youth  and 
budding  womanhood  in  face  and  figure,  with  the  broad  sun 
flashing  on  her  dark  hair  and  seeming  to  crown  her  with 
a  dusky  glory  ;  but  something  calmer,  softer,  sadder,  ay,  even 
older,  visible  in  her  whole  appearance  and  manner,  than 
could  have  been  read  there  in  that  first  morning  of  June, 
upon  the  piazza  of  her  own  house.  She,  too,  had  been  living 
much  within  a  brief  period  :  it  may  be  that  the  course  of  this 
narration  has  furnished  the  reader  with  better  data  for  judg- 
ing hoiv  much,  than  any  that  lay  in  the  possession  of  Robert 
Brand 

She  approached  the  end  of  the  arbor  from  which  he  was 
emerging,  and  he  met  her  before  she  had  reached  it.  Her 
face,  as  they  met,  wore  an  unmistakable  expression  of  wonder 
— his  an  equally  unmistakable  one  of  pain.  Neither  spoke 
for  one  moment,  then  the  old  lawyer  held  out  his  hand  and 
said  : 

"  You  wonder,  Margaret,  why  I  sent  for  you  ?" 

"Did  you  send,  really,  Mr.  Brand?  I  thought  that  per- 
haps Stephen  had  made  a  mistake  and  that  Elsie  wished  to 
see  me  for  some  reason." 

"  No,  Elsie  has  been  absent  all  the  morning,  and  may  not 
return  for  an  hour  or  two  yet,"  was  the  reply.  "  /  sent  for 
you.  I  had  a  reason.  Old  men  do  not  trifle  with  young 
women,  perhaps  you  are  aware."  There  was  that  in  his 
voice  which  displayed  strong  suffering  and  even  an  effort  to 
speak.  The  young  girl  saw  and  heard,  and  the  wonder  in 
her  eyes  deepened  into  anxiety  as  she  said  : 

"  You  surprise  me  by  something  in  your  manner,  Mr.  Brand. 
You  almost  alarm  me.  Pray  do  not  keep  me  in  suspense.  I 
think  I  am  not  so  well  able  to  bear  anxiety  and  mystery  as  I 
used  to  be.     Why  did  you  send  for  me  ?" 

"  Poor  girl  !"  the  lips  of  Robert  Brand  muttered,  so  low 
that  she  did  not  catch  the  words.  Much  less  did  she  hear 
the  two  words  that  fullowcd,  in  little  more  than  a  whispered 


486  THE      COWARD. 

groan  :  "  Poor  girl ! — poor  father  I"  Then  he  took  one  of  the 
white  hands  in  his,  the  eyes  of  the  young  girl  deepening  in 
wonder  and  anxiety  all  the  while, — led  her  a  little  down  the 
path  to  one  of  the  rustic  seats  under  the  trellis,  dropped  down 
upon  it  and  drew  her  down  beside  hira,  uttering  a  sigh,  as  he 
took  his  seat,  like  that  of  a  person  over-fatigued. 

*' You  loved  my  son."  He  did  not  look  at  her  as  he  spoke 
the  words. 

"Mr.  Brand — I  beg  of  you — "  and  then  ]\[argaret  Hayley 
paused,  her  throat  absolutely  choked  with  that  to  which  she 
could  not  give  utterance.  He  did  not  seem  to  heed  her,  but 
went  on. 

*'  You  loved  my  son.  So  did  I.  God  knows  how  /  loved 
him,  and  I  believe  that  your  love  was  as  true  as  heaven." 

"  Mr.  Brand — for  that  heaven's  sake,  why  do  you  say  this, 
to  kill  us  both  ?  I  cannot  listen — "  she  rose  from  the  seat 
with  a  start  and  stood  before  him  as  if  ready  to  fly ;  but  he 
3'et  retained  her  hand  and  drew  her  down  again. 

"We  both  loved  him,  and  3'et  we  killed  him  !  You  drove 
him  from  you.  I  cast  him  off  and  cursed  him.  We  killed 
him.     He  is  dead  !" 

"  Dead  ?"  The  word  was  not  a  question — it  w^as  not  an 
exclamation — it  was  not  a  cry  of  mortal  agony — it  was  all 
three  blended.  Then  she  uttered  no  other  word  but  sat  as 
one  stupefied,  while  he  went  on,  his  lip  quivering  with  that 
most  painful  expression  which  has  before  been  noticed,  and 
his  hand  fumbling  at  his  pocket  for  something  that  he  seemed 
to  wish  to  extract  from  it. 

"  Yes,  he  is  dead.  I  have  known  it  for  two  hours — for  two 
long  hours  I  have  known  that  I  had  no  soji."  Type  cannot 
indicate  the  melancholy  fall  of  the  last  two  words,  and  the 
heart-broken  feeling  they  conveyed.  "  My  son  loved  you, 
Margaret  Hayley,  better  than  he  loved  his  old  father.  You 
loved  him.  You  should  have  been  his  wife.  When  I  knew 
that  he  was  dead,  I  tried  to  conceal  it  from  all  until  I  could 
send  for  you,  for  I  felt  that  it  was  only  here  and  from  my  lips 


THE      COWARD.  487 

that  you  should  learn  the  truth.     Some  other  might  have  told 
you  with  less  thought  for  your  feelings,  perhaps,  than  I  who 

who who  was  so  proud  of  him.     I  have  not  been  rough, 

have  I  ?     I  did  not  mean  to  be— I  meant  to  be  very  gentle, 
to  you,  Margaret  1     See  how  broken  I  am  !" 

So  he  was,  poor  old  man  ! — broken  in  heart  and  voice,  for 
then  he  gave  way  and  dropped  his  head  upon  one  of  his  fail- 
ing hands,  overpowered,  helpless,  little  more  than  a  child. 

Who  shall  describe  the  feelings  of  Margaret  Hayleyas  she 
heard  the  words  which  told  her  of  that  one  bereavement 

beyond  hope as  she  heard  them  in  those  piteous  tones  and 

from  that  agonized  father— a  father  no  more  ?  Absence,  si- 
lence, shame,  separation  of  heart  from  heart  upon  earth,  hope 
against  hope  and  fear  without  a  name — all  were  closed  and 
finished  at  once  and  forever,  in  that  one  great  earthquake  of 
fact  opening  and  swallowing  her  world  of  thought — dead  ! 
Tears  had  not  yet  come— the  blind  agony  that  precedes  them 
if  it  does  not  render  them  impossible,  was  just  then  her  ter- 
rible portion. 

''  How  did  he— when — where— you  have  not  told  me — " 
A  child  just  learning  to  speak  might  have  been  making  that 
feeble  attempt  at  asking  a  connected  question.  But  Robert 
Brand  understood  her,  too  well.  His  hand,  again  fumbling 
at  his  pocket,  brought  out  that  of  which  it  had  been  in  search, 
and  his  trembling  fingers  half  opened  a  newspaper  and  put  it 
into  hers,  ^o  blast  her  sense  with  that  greater  certainty  which 
seems  to  dwell  in  written  or  printed  intelligence  than  in  the 
mere  utterance  of  the  lips — to  destroy  the  last  lingering  hope 
that  might  have  remained  and  put  the  very  dying  scene  before 
the  eyes  so  little  fitted  to  look  upon  it.  A  line  of  ink  was 
drawn  around  part  of  one  of  the  columns  uppermost,  and  the 
reader  had  not  even  the  painful  respite  of  looking  to  find 
what  she  dreaded.  And  of  course  that  paper  was  a  copy 
of  the  Dublin  Evening  Mail,  sent  to  Robert  Brand  by  one 
of  his  distant  relatives  in  England  who  had  chanced  to  see 
what  it  contained— the  graphic  account  of  the  drowning  of 


488  THE      cow  A  K  D . 

Carlton  Brand  from  the  deck  of  the  despatch-steamer,  of  the 
finding  of  the  body  and  the  burial  in  the  little  graveyard  back 
of  the  Hill  of  Howth,  written  by  that  attached  friend  of  a 
night,  Henry  Fitzmaurice. 

Margaret  Hayley  read  through  that  account,  every  word 
of  which  seemed  to  exhaust  one  more  drop  from  the  life-blood 
at  her  heart, — in  stony  silence  and  without  a  motion  that  could 
have  been  perceived.  Then  the  paper  slid  from  her  hands  to 
the  ground,  she  turned  her  head  towards  Robert  Brand  with 
that  slow  and  undecided  motion  so  sad  to  see  because  it 
indicates  a  palsying  of  the  quick  natural  energies ;  and  the 
instant  after,  that  took  place  which  told,  better  than  any 
other  action  could  have  done,  how  much  each  had  built  upon 
that  foundation  of  an  expected  near  and  dear  relationship. 
Robert  Brand  met  that  hopeless  gaze,  reading  her  whole 
secret  even  as  his  own  was  being  read.  Then  he  opened  his 
arms  with  a  cry  that  was  almost  a  scream  :,  "  My  daughter  !" 
and  the  poor  girl  fell  into  them  and  flung  her  own  around  his 
neck  with  the  answering  cry  :  "  Father  !"  Both  were  sobbing 
then  ;  both  had  found  the  relief  of  tears.  And  a  sadder  spec- 
tacle was  never  presented  ;  for  while  Margaret  Hayley,  in 
the  father  of  the  man  she  had  so  loved,  was  striving  to 
embrace  something  of  the  dead  form  that  never  could  be  em- 
braced in  reality,  Robert  Brand  was  still  more  truly  clasping 
a  shadow — trying  to  find  his  lost  son  who  could  never  come 
to  his  arms  again,  in  the  thing  which  had  been  dearest  to  that 
son  while  in  life  I 

"My  son  is  dead  !  Come  to  me;  live  with  me;  be  a  sister 
to  Elsie  and  a  daughter  to  me,  or  I  shall  never  be  able  to  bear 
my-punishment!"  sobbed  the  broken  old  man,  bis  arms  still 
around  the  pliant  form  bowled  upon  his  shoulder ;  but  there 
came  no  answ^er,  as  there  needed  none.  Another  voice  blended 
with  those  that  had  before  spoken,  at  that  moment,  and  again 
old  Elspeth  Graeme  stood  under  the  trellis.  But  was  it  said  a 
little  while  since  that  no  change  had  come  upon  her  since  the 
fading  of  the  roses  of  June  ? — certainly  there  had  been  a  change 


THE      C  O  W  A  li  1) .  489 

startling  and  fearful  to  contemplate,  even  in  the  fewmomcnrs 
elapsing  since  her  former  speech  with  her  master.  The  rough, 
coarse  face  had  assumed  an  expression  in  vvhi(;h  bitter  sorrow 
was  contending  with  terrible  anger;  the  bluish  gray  eyes 
literally  blazed  with  such  light  as  might  have  filled  those  of  a 
tigress  robbed  of  her  young ;  and  it  would  have  needed  no 
violent  stretch  of  fancy  to  believe  that  she  had  revived  one  of 
the  old  traditions  of  her  Gaelic  race  and  become  a  mad  proph- 
etess of  wrath  and  denunciation.  Strangely  enough,  too, 
Carlo  was  again  behind  her,  his  eyes  glaring  upon  the  two 
figures  that  occupied  the  bench,  and  his  heavy  tail  moving 
with  that  slow  threatening  motion  which  precedes  the  spring 
of  the  beast  of  prey  !  Was  old  Elspeth  Graeme  indeed  a 
wierd  woman,  and  had  the  brute  changed  to  be  her  familiar 
and  avenging  spirit  ? 

The  serving-woman  held  something  white  in  her  hand,  but 
neither  Robert  Brand  nor  his  visitor  saw  it.  They  but  saw 
the  tall  form  and  the  face  convulsed  with  wild  feeling ;  and 
both  seemed  to  shrink  before  a  presence  mightier  than  them- 
selves.    The  strange  servitor  spoke  : 

"  Robert  Brand,  tell  me  gin  I  heard  aright!  Did  ye  say 
that  Carlton  Brand  was  dead  ?" 

"  Who  called  you  here,  woman  ?  Yes,  he  is  dead  !  He  was 
drowned  on  the  Irish  coast  three  weeks  ago,"  answered  the 
bereaved  father,  oddly  blending  the  harsh  authority  of  the 
master  with  the  feeling  which  really  compelled  him  to  makv, 
response. 

"Then  ye  had  better  baith  be  dead  wi' him— the  father  who 
banned  his  ain  flesh  and  bluid  and  wished  that  he  would  dee 
before  his  very  eyne,  and  the  fause  woman  who  had  nae  mair 
heart  than  to  drive  him  frae  her  like  a  dog  !" 

"  Woman  !"  broke  out  the  master,  but  the  interruption  did 
not  check  her  for  an  instant.  She  went  on,  broadening  yet 
more  in  her  native  dialect  as  she  grew  yet  more  earnest: 

"  Nae,  ye  must  e'en  bide  my  wuU  and  tak'  it,  Robert  Brand  I 
It  has  been  waiting  here  for  mony  a  day,  and  I  can  baud  it 


490  THE      COWARD. 

nae  longer  !  lie  was  my  braw,  bonnie  lad,  and  puir  auld 
Elsie  loed  him  better  than  ye  a' !  I  harkit  till  ye,  Robert 
Brand,  when  yer  curse  went  blawin'  through  the  biggin  like 
an  east  win',  and  I  keu'd  ye  was  sawin  a  fuff  to  reap  a  swirl ! 
Ye  must  ban  and  dom  yer  ain  bluid  because  it  wad  na  fecht, 
drivin'  the  bairn  awa  frae  kin  and  kintra,  and  noo  ye  hae  wy 
curse  to  stay  wi  ye,  sleepin'  and  waki-n' — ye  an'  the  fause 
beauty  there  that  helpit  ye  work  his  dool !" 

*'  Elspeth  Graeme,  if  you  say  another  word  to  insult  Miss 
Hayley  and  outrage  me,  I  will  forget  that  you  are  a  woman 
and  choke  you  where  you  stand  !"  cried  Kobert  Brand,  no 
longer  able  to  restrain  himself,  starting  to  his  feet  and  draw- 
ing Margaret  to  the  same  position,  with  his  arm  around  her 
waist.  But  the  old  woman  did  not  flinch,  or  pause  long  in  her 
denunciation. 

"  Nae,  ye'U  do  naething  of  the  kind,  Robert  Brand  ! — ye'U 
tak  what  must  come  till  ye  !"  And  indeed  it  looked  as  if 
the  great  dog  behind  her  would  have  sprung  at  the  throat  of 
even  the  master  if  he  had  dared  to  lay  hands  on  his  strange 
servitor.  "  Ye'U  tak  the  curse,  baith  o'  ye,  and  ye'U  groan 
under  it  until  the  day  ye  dee  !  Gin  Carlton  Brand  is  dead,  ye 
murdered  him,  and  his  eldritch  ghaist  shall  come  back  and 
haunt  ye,  by  night  and  by  day,  in  the  mist  o'  the  mountain 
and  the  crowd  o'  the  street,  till  yer  blastit  under  it  and  think 
auld  Hornie  has  grippet  ye  by  the  hearts  !  Yell  sing  dool 
])elyve,  baith  of  ye!  Auld  Elsie  tells  ye  so,  and  slight  her  if 
ye  daur !" 

Before  these  last  words  were  spoken,  Margaret  Hayley  had 
slipped  from  the  grasp  of  the  old  man  and  was  on  her  knees 
upon  the  ground,  her  proud  spirit  fairly  broken,  her  hands 
raised  in  piteous  entreaty,  and  her  lips  uttering  feebly : 

"  Oh,  we  have  both  wronged  him — I  know  it  now.  But 
spare  me,  good  Elspeth,  now  when  my  heart  is  broken  ;  and 
spare  liim!''^ 

But  Kobert  Brand,  as  was  only  natural — Robert  Brand, 
feeble  as  he  was,  viewed  the  matter  in  a  somewhat  different 


THE       COWARD.  491 

light.  Sorrow  might  have  softened  him,  but  it  had  by  do 
means  entirely  cured  his  temper;  and  the  serving-woman  had 
certainly  gone  to  such  lengths  in  her  freedom  as  might  have 
provoked  a  saint  to  something  very  much  like  anger.  He 
grasped  Margaret  from  her  kneeling  position,  apparently  for- 
getting pain  and  weakness, — set  her  upon  the  seat  and  poured 
out  a  volley  of  sound,  strong  plain-English  curses  upon  the  old 
woman,  that  had  no  difficulty  whatever  in  being  understood. 
Dog  or  no  dog,  it  seemed  probable  that  he  might  even  have 
given  vent  to  his  rage  in  a  more  forcible  manner,  when  another 
interruption  occurred  which  somewhat  changed  the  posture  of 
affairs. 

Elsie  Brand  came  out  from  the  house,  hat  upon  head,  and 
dressed  as  for  a  ride.  She  had  been  taking  one,  in  fact,  with 
Dr.  James  Holton,  who  had  driven  her  over  for  a  call  upon 
one  of  her  friends  ;  and  she  looked  radiant  enough  to  proclaim 
the  truth  that  she  had  just  left  very  pleasant  company.  Her 
plump  little  form  as  tempting  and  Hebe-ish  as  ever ;  her 
bright  yellow  hair  a  little  "  touzled"  (it  could  not  be  possible 
that  those  people  had  been  laying  their  heads  too  near 
together  in  the  carriage  as  they  came  across  the  wood  road  !)  ; 
and  her  blue  eyes  one  flash  of  pleasure  that  had  forgotten  all 
the  pain  and  sorrow  in  the  world, — she  was  a  strange  element, 
just  then,  to  infuse  into  the  blending  of  griefs  within  that 
garden.     She  came  out  with  hasty  step,  calling  to  Elspeth. 

"Elspeth!  Elspeth  1  What  keeps  you  so  long?  The 
boy  is  waiting  to  know  if  father  has  any  answer."  Then 
seeing  the  others  :*  "  What,  Margaret  here  with  father  ? 
How  do  you  do,  Margaret  ?"  It  was  notable  how  the  voice 
fell  slowed  and  softened,  in  speaking  the  last  five  words,  and 
how  the  light  went  out  from  her  young  eyes  as  she  spoke. 
Though  friends  always,  Margaret  Hayley  and  Elsie  Brand 
had  never  been  the  same  as  before  to  each  other,  since  that 
painful  June  morning  on  the  piazza.  How  could  they  be  ? 
But  Margaret  was  softened  now,  and  she  said,  "  Dear  Elsie  I'* 


492  THE      COWARD. 

took  tlie  little  girl  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her,  so  that  some- 
thin*^  of  the  past  seemed  to  have  riJturned. 

But  meanwhile  another  incident  of  importance  was  occur- 
ring. It  may  have  been  noticed  that  Elspeth  Graeme  had 
Something  white  in  her  hand  when  she  came  out  into  the 
garden  the  second  time.  So  she  had,  indeed — a  folded  note 
addressed  to  Robert  Brand,  and  with  a  wilderness  of  pnnting 
scattered  over  the  edges  and  half  the  face  of  the  envelope  ; 
but  she  had  quite  forgotten  the  fact  in  the  sudden  knowledge 
of  the  death  of  her  young  master  and  the  necessity  of  becom- 
ing an  avenging  Pythoness  for  the  occasion.  Now,  Elsie's 
words  called  the  attention  of  the  old  lawyer  to  that  something 
in  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  from  her  with  a  motion  very 
much  like  a  jerk,  and  the  words  : 

"If  you  have  a  letter  for  me,  why  did  you  not  give  it  to 
me  instead  of  standing  here  raving  like  a  bedlamite — you  old 
fool  ?" 

"  It  is  na  a  letter ;  it's  what  they  ca'  a  telegraph,  I'm 
thinkin'  !"  muttered  the  old  woman,  a  good  deal  taken  down 
from  her  "  high  horse"  by  this  reminder  of  her  delinquency, 
and  with  some  sort  of  impression  that  this  must  be  a  sufiBcient 
apology  for  not  being  in  a  hurry.  "  Somebody  else  dead, 
belike  ! — we're  a'  goin'  to  the  deevil  as  fast  as  auld  Clootie 
can  drag  us,  I  ken  !" 

It  was  a  telegraphic  despatch  which  the  old  woman  had 
delivered  with  such  signal  celerity,  and  which  Robert  Brand 
tore  open  with  celerity  of  a  very  different  character.  He  read, 
then  read  again,  then  his  face  paled,  and  a  strange,  startled 
look  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  put  one  hand  to  his  forehead 
with  the  exclamation  : 

"  What  is  all  this  ?     Am  I  going  mad  ?" 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?"  and  little  Elsie  pressed  up  to  his 
side  and  took  the  despatch  from  his  unresisting  fingers.  And 
it  was  she  who  read  it  aloud  to  the  other  wonderers,  herself 
the  most  startled  w^onderer  of  all : 


THE      CO  WARP.  493 

Alexandria,  Sept.  l*Ith,  1863. 
Robert  Brand,   West  Philadelphia, 

Care  Messrs.  ,  No. —  Market  St.  Philadelphia. 

Your  son,  Carlton  Brand,  dangerously  wounded  at  Culpeper. 
Lying  in  hospital  here.  If  well  enough,  wish  you  would  come 
down  and  see  him.     He  does  not  know  of  this.  E.  H. 

"Well,  I'll    be 1" 


It  was  a  plump,  round  oath  that  Robert  Brand  uttered — 
very  improper  under  any  circumstances,  and  especially  so  in 
the  presence  of  ladies, — but  about  as  natural,  when  all  things 
are  considered,  as  the  air  he  breathed.  In  order  to  realize 
the  exact  position  and  the  blind  astonishment  that  must  have 
lain  in  that  telegraphic  despatch,  it  is  necessary  to  remember 
that  once  before  he  had  heard  of  the  death  of  the  young  man, 
from  one  who  had  just  seen  his  lifeless  body  (Kitty  Hood), 
and  that  only  two  hours  afterwards  his  house  had  been 
visited  by  the  enraged  Dr.  Pomeroy  to  reclaim  a  girl  that 
the  man  just  before  dead  was  alleged  to  have  stolen  I  Now, 
only  an  hour  or  two  before,  he  had  a  second  time  been  in- 
formed of  his  son's  death  at  sea,  and  burial  in  Ireland,  undef 
Buch  circumstances  that  mistake  seemed  to  be  impossible ; 
and  yet  here  was  a  telegraphic  despatch  quite  as  likely  to  be 
authentic  if  not  originating  in  some  unfeeling  hoax — inform- 
ing him  that  he  had  been  nearly  killed  in  battle,  and  was 
lying  in  one  of  the  Virginia  hospitals  I  At  short  intervals 
the  young  man  seemed  to  die,  in  different  places,  and  then 
immediately  after  to  be  alive  again  in  other  places,  under 
aspects  scarcely  less  painful  and  yet  more  embarrassing. 
There  was  certainly  enough  in  all  this  to  make  the  old  man's 
brain  whirl,  and  to  overspread  the  faces  of  the  others  with 
such  blank  astonishment  that  they  seemed  to  be  little  else 
than  demented.  There  was  one,  however,  not  puzzled  one 
whit.  That  was  old  Elspeth,  who  muttered,  loudly  enough 
for  them  all  to  hear,  as  she  abandoned  them  to  their  fate, 
resigned  her  temporary  position  as  seeress,  and  went  back  to 
the  mundane  duties  of  house-keeping : 


49i  THK      COWARD. 

"  It's  not  tlie  bairn's  ainsel  at  all  that's  lying  down  amang: 
tlie  naygurs  where  they're  fechtiug.  It  is  his  double  that's 
come  bock  frae  the  auld  land  to  haunt  ye  I  Come  awa, 
Carlo,  lad,  and  let  them  mak  much  of  it!" 
,  There  is  no  need  to  recapitulate  all  that  followed  between 
the  three  remaining  people,  surprised  in  such  different  de- 
grees— the  words  in  which  little  Elsie  was  made  to  under- 
stand the  first  intelligence,  followed  by  her  reading  of  the 
whole  account  in  the  Irish  paper — the  hopes,  fears,  fancies 
and  wild  surmises  which  swept  through  the  brains  and  hearts 
of  each — the  thoughts  of  Robert  Brand  over  the  initials  ap- 
pended to  the  telegraphic  despatch,  which  for  some  reason 
made  him  much  more  confident  of  its  authenticity  than  he 
would  otherwise  have  been,  while  they  embarrassed  him 
terribly  in  another  direction  which  may  or  may  not  be 
guessed — the  w^eaving  together  of  three  minds  that  had 
been  more  or  less  separated  by  conflicting  feelings  with  refer- 
ence to  that  very  person,  into  one  grand  total  and  aggregate 
of  anxiet_y  which  dwarfed  all  other  considerations  and  made 
the  whole  outside  world  a  blank  and  a  nothing  in  comparison. 
All  this  may  be  imagined  :  until  the  perfecting  of  that  inven- 
tion by  which  the  kaleidoscope  is  to  be  photographed  in  the 
moment  of  its  revolution,  it  cannot  be  set  in  words.  But  the 
result  may  and  must  be  given. 

"  I  shall  go  to  Washington  by  the  train,  to-night,"  said 
Robert  Brand,  when  the  discussion  had  reached  a  certain 
point,  with  the  mystery  thicker  than  ever  and  the  anxiety 
proportionately  increasing. 

"You,  father?  Are  you  well  enough  to  go  ?"  and  little 
Elsie  looked  at  him  with  gratified  and  yet  fearful  surprise. 

"  No  matter,  I  am  going  !"  That  was  enough,  and  Elsie 
knew  it.  Within  the  last  half  hour  much  of  his  old  self 
seemed  to  have  returned  ;  and  when  he  assumed  that  tone, 
life  granted,  he  would  go  as  inevitably  as  the  locomotive. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Mr.  Brand — father  !"  said 
^[argaret  Hayley,  very  calmly.  **  It  will  make  it  much 
better,  no  doubt,  for  /  am  going." 


THE      COWARD.  495 

"You  I"  This  time  there  were  two  voices  that  uttered 
the  word  of  surprise. 

'*  Yes,  I!  If  Carlton  Brand  is  lying  wounded  in  a  Vir- 
ginia hospital,  I  know  my  duty ;  and  if  I  must  miss  that,  to 
hitn,  or  Heaven,  henceforward,  I  shall  be  among  the  lost  I" 
Strange,  wild,  mad  words ;  but  how  much  they  conveyed  ! 

"God  bless  you,  my  daughter /"     "  My  dear,  dear  sister P' 
And  somehow  three  people  managed  to  be  included  in  one 
embrace  immediately  after.     This  was  all,  worth  recording 
that  the  grape  trellis  saw.  °' 

That  evening  when  the  Thiladelphia,  Wilmington  and 
Baltimore  train  left  Broad  and  Prime,  it  bore  Robert  Brand 
and  Margaret  Hayley,  going  southward  on  that  singular 
quest  which  might  end  in  so  sad  and  final  a  disappointment. 


CHAPTER    XXIY. 

In  the  Hospital  at  Alexandria-.The  Wounded  Man 
AND  HIS  Nurse— Sad  Omens_A  Reunion  of  Three- 
Brave  Man  or  Coavard  ?-Who  was  Horace  Town- 
send  ?_A    Mystery   Explained-How   Eleanor   Hill 

WENT    BACK    TO    Dr.  PoMEROY'S-OnE   WORD   MORE   OP   THE 

Comanche  Rider— Conclusion. 

Glimpses  now,  only  glimpses-with  great  breaks  between 
which  the  imagination  may  fill  at  pleasure.  Events,  few  in 
number,  not  less  strange,  perhaps,  than  those  which  have 
already  occurred,  but  less  enwrapped  in  mystery,  and  gradu- 
ally shaping  themselves  towards  the  inevitable  end. 

The  military  hospital  at  Alexandria.     Outside,  diniry  and 
•yet  miposing,  fit  type  of  the  State  that  held  it,  in  the  days 
before  secession  was  anything  more  than  a  crime  in  thought 
A\ithin,   a   wilderness   of   low-ceilingod   rooms,  comfortable 


496  THE      COWARD. 

enouirli  but  all  more  or  less  diiifry  like  the  exterior.  Nine  out 
of  ten  of  them  filJc^d  with  cot-bedsteads  arranged  in  long  rows 
with  aisles  between  ;  sacred  at  once  to  two  of  the  most  incon- 
gruous exhibitions  of  human  propensity — the  blood-thirsty 
cruelty  which  can  kill  and  maim, — the  angelic  kindness  which 
can  make  a  dear  child  or  brother  out  of  the  merest  stranger 
and  bind  up  the  hurts  of  a  rough,  hard-handed,  blaspheming 
ruffian,  of  blood  unknown  and  lineage  uncared  for,  with  all 
that  tender  care  which  could  be  bestowed  upon  the  gentlest 
and  loveliest  daughter  of  a  pampered  race  when  sick  or  dis- 
abled. One  of  the  many  places  scattered  over  the  loyal  States 
and  many  portions  of  the  disloyal,  made  terrible  to  recollection 
by  the  suffering  that  has  been  endured  within  them  and  the 
lives  that  have  gone  out  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  Moloch  of  de- 
structive war, — but  made  holy  beyond  all  conception,  at  the 
same  time,  by  the  patriotic  bravery  with  which  many  of  their 
lives  have  been  surrendered  to  the  great  Giver  for  a  glorious 
cause ;  by  the  patience  with  which  agony  has  been  endured 
and  almost  reckoned  as  pleasure  for  the  nation's  sake ;  and 
by  the  footsteps  of  the  nobler  men  and  if  possible  still  nobler 
women  of  America,  who  have  given  up  ease  and  comfort  and 
domestic  happiness  and  health  and  even  life  itself,  to  minister 
to  those  stricken  down  in  the  long  conflict. 

No  need  to  draw  the  picture  :  nothing  of  war  or  its  sad 
consequences  remains  a  mystery  in  this  age  and  to  this  people. 
Too  many  eyes  have  looked  upon  the  wards  of  our  hospitals, 
the  forms  stretched  there  in  waiting  for  death  or  recovery,  the 
figures  moving  around  and  among  them  in  such  ministration 
as  the  Good  Samaritan  may  have  bestowed  upon  the  bruised 
and  beaten  Jew  of  the  parable  ; — too  many  ears  have  listened 
to  the  moans  of  suffering  rising  up  continually  like  a  long 
complaint  to  heaven,  the  sharp  screams  of  agony  under  tem- 
porary pang  or  fearful  operation,  the  words  of  content  under 
any  lot,  blending  like  an  undertone  with  all,  and  the  words 
of  prayer  and  Christian  dependence  crowning  and  hallowing 
all ; — too  many  of  the  men  of  this  time  have  seen  and  heard 


THE      COWARD.  497 

these  tbings,  and  too  many  more  may  yet  have  the  duty  of  look- 
ing upon  them  and  listening  to  them,  to  make  either  wise  or 
necessary  the  closer  limning  of  the  picture  that  might  other- 
wise be  presented.  W^  have  to  do  with  but  a  little  corner 
of  the  great  building  that  had  been  made  so  useful  in  the  care 
of  the  sick  and  wounded,  just  as  this  narration  holds  involved 
the  interests  of  a  poor  half-dozen  among  the  many  millions 
affected  by  the  colossal  struggle. 

A  small  room,  on  the  second  floor  of  the  building,  the  walls 
once  white  and  even  now  scrupulously  clean  but  dingy  from 
smoke  and  use.  Two  windows  in  it,  opening  to  the  west,  the 
tops  shaded  by  paper  curtains  with  muslin,  inside,  while  at 
the  bottoms  streamed  in  the  soft  September  afternoon  sun- 
light that  lay  like  a  glory  over  the  Virginian  woods,  so  fair 
to  the  eye  but  so  foul  and  treacherous  within,  stretching  away 
towards  the  bannered  clouds  before  many  hours  to  shroud  the 
Betting  of  the  great  luminary.  Not  one  of  the  common  rooms 
in  which,  perforce  from  their  number,  sick  and  wounded  sol- 
diers must  be  more  or  less  closely  huddled  together, — but  one 
devoted  to  the  care  of  wounded  oflBcers,  with  four  beds  of  iron, 
neatly  made  and  draped,  and  at  this  time  only  one  of  them 
occupied. 

We  have  more  than  once  before  had  occasion  to  notice  the 
occupant  of  that  one  bed  near  the  head  of  the  room,  with  a 
stream  of  sunshine  pouring  in  at  the  window  and  flooding 
the  whole  foot.  We  have  before  had  occasion  to  remark  that 
tall,  slight  but  sinewy  form  distending  the  thin  covering  as  it 
settled  to  his  shape.  Something  of  his  appearance  we  have 
not  seen  before — the  head  of  hair  of  an  indescribable  mixture, 
half  pale  gold  or  light  blonde  and  the  other  or  outer  half 
dark  brown  or  black,  scarcely  seeming  to  belong  to  the  same 
growth  unless  produced  by  some  mad  freak  of  nature.  Nor 
Ijave  we  before  remarked  the  splendidly-chiselled  face  so  pale 
and  wan,  the  life-fluids  seeming  to  be  exhausted  beneath  the 
skin,  from  loss  of  blood  and  severe  suffering.  Nor  yet  that 
jther  anomaly — a  moustache  with  the  outer  ends  very  dark, 


498  THE      COWARD. 

almost  black,  straDj^ely  relieved  b}'  a  crop  of  light  brown 
beard  starting  thick  and  short,  like  stubble,  on  the  chin. 
Like  this  picture  in  some  regards,  unlike  it  in  others,  the 
occupant  of  that  bed  has  before  presented,  as  at  this  moment, 
an  anomaly  equally  interesting  and  puzzling.  Wherever  and 
whenever  seen,  at  earlier  periods,  the  last  time  he  met  the 
gaze  he  was  dropping  from  his  horse,  a  bullet  through  the 
body  just  above  the  heart,  a  red  sword  slipping  from  his  hand 
and  insensibility  succeeding  to  delirium,  near  the  railroad- 
bridge  and  the  captured  rebel  battery  at  Culpeper. 

The  wounded  man  lay  with  his  eyes  closed  and  seemed  to 
be  in  sleep.  Beside  the  bed  on  a  low  stool  and  partially  rest- 
ing against  it,  was  one  who  slept  not — a  woman.  One  elbow 
resting  on  the  bed-clothes  supporting  her  head,  and  the  other 
hand  holding  a  book  in  which  she  was  reading.  This  was 
evidently  the  nurse,  and  yet  scarcely  an  ordinary  nurse  charged 
with  the  care  of  all  patients,  or  she  could  not  have  afforded 
the  time  for  watching  one  convalescent  v/hile  he  slept.  She, 
too,  may  have  been  seen  before ;  for  something  there  was  in 
that  tall  and  lithe  form,  that  mass  of  rich  silky  brown  hair, 
that  face  with  its  mournful  eyes  and  painfully  delicate  features 
— something  that,  once  seen,  lingered  like  a  sweet,  sad  dream 
in  the  gazer's  memory.  And  yet  here,  too,  if  there  was  an 
identity,  change  had  been  very  busy.  The  form  had  always 
been  lithe — it  was  now  thin  to  fragility;  the  hands  had  al- 
ways been  taper  and  delicate — now  they  were  fleshless  almost 
to  emaciation  ;  the  face  had  always  conveyed  the  thought 
of  gentleness,  helplessness  and  needful  protection — now  it 
seemed  less  helpless  but  more  mournful,  the  cheeks  a  little 
sunken,  and  the  red  spot  burning  in  the  centre  of  either  not  a 
close  enough  semblance  of  ruddy  health  to  deceive  an  eye 
quickened  by  affectionate  anxiety.  She  was  dying,  perhaps 
slowly,  it  might  be  rapidly,  but  dying  beyond  a  peradventure, 
with  that  friend  or  foe  which  has  ushered  more  human  beings 
into  the  presence  of  God  than  any  other  disease  swayed  as 
an  agency  by  the  great  destroyer — consumption  I 


THE      COWARD.  499 

i 


A  few  moments  of  silence,  unbroken  by  any  sound  within 
the  room  except  the  thick  breathing  of  the  sleeper :  then  the 
girl  who  sat  at  his  side  choked  a  moment,  seemed  to  make 
violent  efforts  to  control  the  coming  spasm,  but  at  last 
yielded,  clapped  both  hands  to  her  left  side  just  above  her 
heart,  and  broke  into  one  of  those  terrible  fits  of  coughing 
which  tear  away  the  system  as  the  earthquake  rives  the  solid 
ground,  and  which 'are  almost  as  hard  to  hear  as  to  endure. 
Instantl}^  as  the  spasm  relaxed,  she  hurriedly  drew  a  white 
handkerchief  from  the  pocket  of  her  dark  dress  and  wiped 
her  lips.  It  was  replaced  so  suddenly  that  the  awakened 
sleeper  did  not  see  what  stained  it— blood,  mingled  fright- 
fully with  the  clear  white  foam. 

The  eyes  of  the  wounded  man  opened  ;  and  there  was 
something  more  of  himself  that  came  back  in  the  light  of 
their  warm  hazel,  only  a  little  dimmed  by  suifering,  and  in 
the  play  of  all  the  muscles  of  the  face  when  awake.  Both 
hands  lay  outside  the  bed-clothing;  and  as  she  saw  the  open- 
ing of  his  eyes  the  girl  stretched  out  her  own  and  took  one 
of  them  with  such  gentleness  and  devotion  as  was  most  beau- 
tiful to  behold.  She  seemed  to  be  touching  flesh  that  she 
held  to  be  better  than  her  own— a  suggestive  rarity  in  this 
arrogant  world  !  Something  that  man  had  been  to  her,  or 
something  he  had  done  for  her,  beyond  a  doubt,  which  made 
him  the  object  of  a  feeling  almost  too  near  to  idolatry.  And 
yet  what  had  he  given  her,  to  win  so  much  ?  Not  wealth— 
not  love  :  merely  true  friendship,  respect  when  others  despised, 
and  a  little  aid  towards  rescue  when  others  turned  away  or 
labored  to  produce  final  ruin  !  How  easily  heaven  may  bo 
scaled— the  heaven  of  love  and  devotion  if  no  height  beyond, 
—by  that  consideration  which  costs  so  little,  by  that  kind- 
ness which  should  be  a  duty  if  it  even  brought  no  recom- 
pense 1 

"  There — I  have  woke  you  I     I  am  so  sorry  !"  she  said,  as 
she  met  his  eyes  and  touched  his  hand. 

"What  consequence,  if  you  have?"  was  his  reply,  in  a  voice 


500  THE      COWARD. 

low  and  somewhat  feeble,  while  his  tliiu  hand  made  some 
poor  attempt  at  returning  her  kind   pressure.     "  Ever  gener-    ^ 
ous,  Eleanor — ever  thinking  of  others  and  not  of  yourself! 
They  make  angels  of  such  people  as  you — do  you  know  it  ?" 

"Angels  ?  oh,  my  God,  have  I  lived  to  hear  that  word 
applied  to  meV^  Such  was  the  answer,  and  the  mournful 
eyes  went  reverently  upward  as  she  invoked  the  one  holy 
Kame. 

"Angels?  yes,  why  not?"  said  the  invalid.  "Every  light- 
tongued  lover  calls  his  mistress  by  that  name  sometime  or 
other,  and — " 

"  Hush,  Carlton  Brand,  hush  !" 

Some  painful  chord  was  touched,  and  he  appeared  to  un- 
derstand, as  well  he  might,  by  what  word  with  two  meanings 
he  had  lacerated  a  feeling.  He  went  back  to  what  he  had  evi- 
dently intended  to  say  at  first. 

"You  do  not  think  of  yourself,  I  say  You  have  been 
coughing  again.'' 

"A  little." 

"A  little  ?  Loudly  enough  to  wake  me,  and  I  am  a  sound 
sleeper.  Eleanor  Hill,  you  are  nursing  me,  when  yoU  more 
need  a  nurse  yourself.  I  am  almost  well,  you  know.  You 
are  growing  thinner  and  your  cough  is  worse  every  day." 

"  Xo,  Carlton,  better — much  better  !" 

"Are  you  sure  ?  Stop,  let  me  see  your  handkerchief!"  He 
was  looking  her  steadily  in  the  face,  and  she  obeyed  him  as 
if  in  spite  of  her  own  will  and  because  she  had  always  been 
in  the  habit  of  doing  so. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "  Eleanor,  you  are  very  ill.  Do 
not  deceive  yourself  or  try  to  deceive  me." 

"Carlton  Brand,"  she  answered,  returning  that  look,  full  in 
the  eyes,  and  speaking  slowly — calmly — firmly.  "  I  am  dy- 
ing, and  no  one  knows  the  fact  better  than  myself.  Thank 
God  that  the  end  is  coming  !" 

"Oh  no,  you  are  very  ill,  but  not  beyond  hope — not  dying," 
he  attempted  to  urge  as  some  modification  of  the  startling 
confession  she  had  made. 


THE      COWARD.  601 

"  Yes — the  whole  truth  may  as  well  be  told  now,  Carlton, 
since  we  have  begun  it.  I  am  dying  of  consumption,  and  I 
hope  and  believe  that  I  shall  have  but  few  more  days  left 
after  you  get  well  enough  to  leave  this  hospital." 

"  Heavens  1"  exclaimed  the  wounded  man.  "  If  this  is 
true,  do  you  know  what  you  are  making  of  me  ?  Little  else 
than  a  murderer  I  I  meant  it  for  the  best — the  best  for  the 
country  and  yourself,  when  I  took  you  away  from  the  house 
of  your — of  Philip  Pomeroy,  and  sent  you  into  this  new  path 
of  life  ;  but  the  sleepless  hours  and  over-exertion,  the  ex- 
posures to  foul  air  and  draughts  and  anxiety  to  which  you 
have  been  subjected — oh,  Eleanor,  is  this  what  I  have  done  ?" 

She  slid  from  her  chair  and  kneeled  close  beside  the  bed, 
bending  over  towards  him  with  the  most  affectionate  interest. 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  no  agitation  in  her  voice.  "  Do  you 
think  that  three  months  has  done  this  ?  My  family  are  all 
consumptive — my  father  died  of  the  disease.  What  was  done 
to  me" — her  voice  faltered  for  just  one  moment,  then  she 
calmed  it  again  by  an  obvious  effort — "  What  was  done  to 
me,  was  done  long  before  and  by  another  hand." 

"  Stop  I"  he  interrupted  her  as  she  was  evidently  about  to 
proceed.  "  I  must  say  one  word  about  him.  Did  you  ever 
know  all  the  reason  why  each  of  us  feared  and  hated  the 
other  so  much  ?" 

Merely  a  sad  shake  of  the  head  was  the  negative. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  now.  I  was  a  coward,  and  he  knew  it. 
You  knew  so  much  before,  but  nothing  else,  I  believe. 
He  was  present  once  when  I  fainted  at  the  very  sight  of 
blood — something  that  I  believe  I  always  used  to  do ;  and 
he  knew  of  my  refusing  a  challenge  because  I  really  dared 
not  fight.  He  could  expose  and  ruin  me,  and  I  feared  him. 
I  knew  him  to  be  a  scoundrel  in  money  affairs  as  well  as  in 
every  other  way  :  as  a  lawyer  I  could  put  my  finger  on  a 
great  crime  that  he  had  committed  to  win  a  large  part  of  his 
fortune.  He  knew  that  I  knew  it,  and  that  I  would  have 
exposed  him  if  I  dared.     So  he  feared  and  hated  mc,  and 


502  THE      COWARD. 

each  held  the  other  in  check  without  doing  more.  It  is  time 
that  you  should  know  that  crime  :  it  was  his  robbing  you  of 
every  dollar  left  you  by  your  father,  and  putting  them  all  into 
his  own  pocket,  through  the  pretended  machinery  of  that 
Dunderhaven  Coal  and  Mining  Company,  of  which  he  was 
President,  Director  and  all  the  officers  !" 

"  Carlton  !  Carlton  !  can  this  be  true,  even  of  him  ?"  asked 
the  young  girl,  horrified  at  this  crowning  proof  of  a  depravity 
beyond  conception  and  yet  not  beyond  fact. 

"  It  is  true,  every  word  of  it,  and  if  I  had  not  been  a  wretch 
unfit  to  live,  I  would  have  exposed  and  punished  him  long 
ago.  Lately  I  think  I  must  have  gone  through  what  they 
call  '  baptizing  in  fire,'  and  the  very  day  I  am  able  to  crawl 
once  more  to  Dr.  Pomeroy's  house,  I  shall  force  him  to  meet 
me  in  a  duel  or  shoot  him  down  like  a  dog  !" 

"This  from  you,  Carlton  Brand!"  The  tone  was  very 
piteous. 

"  Yes — why  not  ?"  The  tone  was  hard  and  decided,  for  a 
sick  man. 

"  May  heaven  forgive  you  the  thought.  Now  listen  to  me. 
You  have  been  the  dearest  friend  I  ever  had  in  the  world. 
You  have  been  better  and  truer  to  me  than  any  brother ;  and 
you  have  done  me  the  greatest  of  all  favors  by  sending  me 
here  to  nurse  the  sick  and  wounded,  to  win  back  something 
of  my  lost  self-respect  and  close  up  a  wasted  life  with  a  little 
usefulness  before  I  die !  But  after  all  this  I  shall  almost  hate 
you — I  shall  not  be  able,  I  am  afraid,  to  pray  for  you  in  that 
land  I  am  so  soon  going  to  visit, — if  you  do  not  make  me  one 
solemn  promise  and  keep  it  as  you  would  save  your  own 
soul." 

There  was  an  agonized  earnest  in  her  words  and  in  her 
manner,  as  she  thus  spoke,  kneeling  there  and  even  clasping 
her  hands  in  entreaty.  Carlton  Brand  looked  at  her  for  one 
instant  with  a  great  pity ;  then  he  said  : 

"  Eleanor  Hill,  if  the  promise  is  one  that  a  man  can  make 
and  a  man  can  keep,  I  will  make  it  and  keep  it !" 


THE      0  O  W  A  K  1) .  508 

**  Then  promise  me  neither  in  word  nur  act  to  harm  Philip 
Pomeroy.     Leave  him  to  me." 

"  To  you,  poor  girl  ?" 

**  To  me !  I  will  bo  punish  him  as  no  man  was  ever 
punished." 

"  You  punish  him  ?     You,  feeble  and  dying  ?     How  ?" 

"  By  going  back  to  his  house — if  they  will  obey  my  last 
wish  when  the  hour  comes, — dead.^^ 

*'  That  will  be  punishment  enough,  perhaps,  even  for  him, 
if  he  is  human  !"  slowly  said  the  invalid  as  he  took  in  the 
thought.     "I  promise." 

"  God  bless  you  I"  and  poor  Eleanor  Hill  fell  forward  on 
the  bed  and  burst  into  sobs  that  ended  the  moment  after  in  a 
fit  of  still  more  violent  coughing  than  that  which  had  racked 
her  half  an  hour  previously.  And  this  did  not  end  like  the 
other,  but  deepened  and  grew  more  hoarse  until  the  white 
froth  flew  from  the  suffering  lips,  followed  by  a  gush  of  blood 
that  not  only  d3'ed  the  foam  but  spattered  the  bed-covering. 

"  Heavens  !  see  how  you  are  bleeding,  my  poor  girl !  You 
must  have  help  at  once  !"  The  face  of  the  speaker,  deadly 
pale  and  sorely  agitated,  told  how  bad  a  nurse  was  this 
choking,  dying  girl,  in  his  enfeebled  condition,  with  a  terrible 
wound  scarcely  yet  commenced  healing. 

"  Ko,  I  do  not  need  help— I  shall  be  better  in  a  moment. 
But  I  agitate  you,  and  I  will  go  away  until  I  have  stopped 
coughing." 

Which  would  be,  Carlton  Brand  thought,  perhaps  a  few 
moments  before  she  went  into  that  holy  presence  from  which 
the  most  betrayed  and  down-trodden  may  not  be  debarred  ! 
Ever  weakly-loving — ever  thoughtless  of  her  own  welfare 
and  childishly  subservient  to  the  good  of  others — lacking  self- 
assertion,  but  never  wantonly  sinful, — had  not  that  strange 
thinker,  yet  under  the  influence  of  the  fever  of  his  wound, 
some  right  to  remember  Mary's  tears,  and  the  blessing  to  the 
"poor  in  heart,"  promised  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount? 

But  there  was  real  danger  to  the  invalid  in  this  agitation, 


504  THE      COWARD. 

and  the  will  of  another  stepped  in  to  remove  the  daDg^er.  Be- 
fore the  poor  girl  had  quite  ceased  coughing,  one  of  the  phy- 
sicians of  the  hospital,  a  gray-haired,  benevolent-looking  man, 
stood  by  the  bedside  and  touched  her  upon  the  shoulder. 

"  Coughing  again,  and  so  terribly  !  What,  blood  ?  Fie,  fie  I 
— this  will  never  do  1"  he  said.  "  If  the  sick  nurse  the  sick, 
both  fare  badly,  you  know.  If  the  scripture  doesn't  say  so,  it 
ought  to.  You  must  go  away  to  Mrs.  Waldron,  Nellie,  and 
keep  quiet  and  not  stir  out  again  to-day." 

"Yes,  Doctor,"she  answered,  rising  obediently.  "Good- night, 
Carlton  I"  She  stooped  and  pressed  her  lips  to  the  thin  hand 
so  touchingly  that  the  doctor,  who  could  scarcely  even  guess 
the  past  relation  between  the  two,  almost  felt  the  tears  rising 
as  he  looked. 

"Good-night,  and  God  bless  you,  Eleanor." 

The  doctor's  eyes  followed  her  as  with  slow,  weak  steps 
she  passed  out  of  the  room,  her  pale,  mournful  face  with  its 
hectic  cheeks  and  sad  eyes  looking  back  to  the  bed  for  an  in- 
stant as  she  disappeared.  Then  he  turned  away  with  a  sigh 
— such  a  sigh  of  helpless  sorrow  as  he  had  no  doubt  often 
heaved  over  the  living  illustrations  of  those  two  heart-break- 
ing words — "fading  away." 

"  I  am  sorry  she  was  here,"  he  said,  when  she  had  gone.  "  I 
am  afraid  that  she  has  used  up  strength  that  you  needed. 
There  are  visitors  to  see  you." 

"  To  see  me  ?" 

"  Yes — now  keep  as  cool  as  possible,  or  I  will  send  them 
away  again.  I  hate  mysteries  and  surprises ;  but  poor  Eleanor 
does  not,  and  she  sent  for  them,  I  believe." 

"  She  sent  for  them  ?     She  ?     Then  they  are — " 

"  Keep  still,  or  I  will  tell  you  no  more — they  are  two  from 
whom  you  have  been  estranged,  I  think — your  father  and — " 

"My  sister?" 

"No,  the  lady  is  not  your  sister,  I  think.  She  is  tall,  dark- 
haired,  very  beautiful  and  very  queenly.     Is  that  your  sister  ?" 

"No — no — that  is  not  my  sister — that  is — heavens,  can  thia 


THK      COWARD.  505 

be  possible,  or  am  I  dreaming  ?  Doctor,  this  agitation  is 
hurting-  mc  worse  than  any  presence  could  do.  Send  them  in 
and  trust  me.  I  will  be  quiet — I  will  husband  my  life,  for  if 
I  am  not  mad  and  you  are  not  trifling,  there  may  yet  be  some- 
thing in  the  world  worth  living  for." 

The  doctor  laid  his  hand  on  the  pulse  of  his  patient,  looked 
for  a  moment  into  his  face,  and  then  left  the  room.  The 
next,  two  stepped  within  it — an  old  man  with  gray  hair  rapidly 
changing  to  silver,  and  a  woman  in  the  very  bloom  of  youth 
and  beauty.  The  eyes  of  the  w^ounded  man  were  closed. 
What  was  he  doing  ? — collecting  strength,  or  looking  for  it 
where  it  ever  abides  ?  No  matter.  Only  one  instant  more, 
and  then  the  two  were  on  their  knees  by  the  bedside,  where 
Eleanor  Hill  had  just  been  kneeling — the  father  with  the  thin 
band  in  his  and  murmuring  :  **  Carlton  !  my  brave,  my  noble 
son  I"  and  Margaret  Hayley  leaning  far  over  the  low  couch 
and  saying  a  thousand  times  more  in  one  long,  tender,  cling- 
ing kiss,  light  as  a  snow-flake  but  loving  and  warm  as  the 
touch  of  the  tropic  sun, — that  shunned  cheek  and  brow  and 
laid  its  blessing  on  the  answering  lips  I 

Some  of  the  words  of  that  meeting  are  too  sacred  to  be 
given  :  let  them  be  imagined  with  the  pressure  of  hands  and 
the  hungry  glances  of  eyes  that  could  not  look  enough  in  any 
space  of  time  allotted  them.  But  there  were  others,  follow- 
ing close  after,  which  may  and  must  be  given.  Whole  vol- 
umes had  been  spoken  in  a  few  words,  and  yet  the  book  was 
scarcely  opened, — when  Margaret  Hayley  rose  from  her  knees 
and  bending  over  the  bed  ran  those  dainty  white  fingers 
through  the  strangely  mottled  hair  on  the  brow  of  the  invalid. 
Then  she  seemed  to  discover  something  incongruous  in  dif- 
ferent portions  of  the  face  ;  and  the  moment  after,  stooping 
still  closer  down,  she  swept  away  the  hair  from  the  brow  and 
scanned  the  texture  of  the  skin  at  its  edge.  A  long,  narrow 
scar,  its  white  gloss  just  relieved  on  the  pallid  flesh,  crossed 
the  forehead  from  the  left  temple  to  the  centre  of  its  apex. 
She  seemed  surprised  and  even  frightened;   then  a  look  of 


506  THE      COWARD. 

mingled  shame  and  pleasure  broke  over  that  glorious  face,  and 
she  leaned  close  above  him  and  said,  compelling  his  eyes  to 
look  steadily  into  hers  : 

"  Carlton  Brand,  what  does  this  mean  ?  I  know  that  scar 
and  the  color  that  has  once  covered  that  hair  and  moustache  ! 
You  are  Horace  Townsend  !" 

''  I  was  Horace  Townsend  once,  for  a  little  while,  Mar- 
garet," was  the  reply.  "But  it  won  me  nothing,  and  you  see 
for  what  a  stern  reality  I  have  given  up  masquerading." 

"And  you  plunged  into  the  Pool  to  save  that  drowning  boy. 
Ton  went  down  into  that  dreadful  schute  and  brought  up  the 
Rambler  !  You  spoke  to  the  Old  Man  of  the  Mountain  at 
midnight  and  carried  me  away  with  your  words  on  Echo  Lake. 
And  you — heaven  keep  my  senses  when  I  think  of  it ! — you 
made  love  to  me  along  the  road  down  the  Glen  below  the 
Crawford  !" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  was  guilty  of  all  those  offences  1"  answered 
the  invalid,  with  something  nearer  to  a  smile  of  mischief 
glimmering  from  the  corner  of  his  eve  than  had  shone  there 
for  many  a  day. 

"  I  did  hear  something  in  your  voice  the  first  night  that  I 
^aw  you  there,  and  afterwards,"  Margaret  Hayley  went  on, 
"  which  made  me  shudder  from  its  echo  of  yours ;  and  more 
than  once  I  saw  that  in  your  face  which  won  me  to  you  with- 
out my  knowing  why.  Yet  all  the  impression  wore  off  by 
degrees,  and — only  think  of  it ! — I  w^as  nearly  on  the  point, 
at  one  time,  of  believing  that  I  had  found  a  truer  ideal  than 
the  one  so  lately  lost,  and  of  promising  to  become  the  wife 
of  Horace  Townsend  !  Think  where  you  would  have  been, 
you  heartless  deceiver,  if  I  had  fallen  altogether  into  the  trap 
and  done  so  !" 

"  I  think  I  might  have  endured  that  successful  rivalry  bet- 
ter than  any  other  !"  was  the  very  natural  reply. 

"And  this  man,"  said  Robert  Brand,  standing  close  beside 
the  bed,  looking  down  at  his  son  with  a  face  in  which  pride 
and  joy  had  mastered  its  great  trouble  of  a  few  days  before. 


T  11  E      COW  AKl).  007 

and  apparently  speaking  quite  as  much  to  himself  as  to  either 
of  his  auditors — "  this  man,  capable  of  such  deeds  of  godlike 
bravery  in  ordinary  life,  and  then  of  winning  the  applause  of 
a  whole  army  in  the  very  front  of  battle, — I  cursed  and 
despised  as  a  coward  1  God  forgive  me  ! — and  you,  my  son, 
try  to  forget  that  ever  I  set  myself  up  as  your  pitiless  judge, 
to  be  punished  as  few  fathers  have  ever  been  punished  who 
yet  had  the  sons  of  their  love  spared  to  them  !  Margaret-^ 
how  have  we  both  misunderstood  him  !" 

"  The  fault  was  not  all  yours,  by  any  means,"  said  the  in- 
valid. "  How  could  either  of  you  know  me  when  I  misun- 
derstood and  belied  myself  P^ 

And  in  that  remark — the  last  word  uttered  by  Carlton  Brand 
before  he  yielded  to  the  exhaustion  of  his  last  hour  of  im- 
prudent excitement  and  fell  away  to  a  slumber  almost  as 
profound  as  death,  just  as  the  old  doctor  stepped  back  to 
forbid  a  longer  interview,  and  while  the  shadows  of  evening 
began  to  fall  within  the  little  room,  and  Margaret  Hayle}^  sat 
by  his  bedside  and  held  his  hand  in  hers  with  what  was 
plainly  a  grasp  never  to  be  broken  again  during  the  lives  of 
both,  and  Robert  Brand,  sitting  but  a  little  farther  away, 
watched  the  son  that  had  been  lost  and  was  found,  with  a 
deeper  tenderness  and  a  holier  pride  thaa  he  had  ever  felt 
when,  bending  over  the  pillow  of  his  sleeping  childhood, — in 
that  remark,  we  say,  lay  the  key  to  all  which  had  so  aifectod 
his  life,  and  which  eventually  gave  cause  for  this  somewhat 
singular  and  desultory  narration.  He  had  misunderslood 
himself;  and  only  pain,  suffering  and  a  mental  agony  more 
painful  than  any  physical  death,  had  been  able  to  bring  him- 
self and  those  who  best  knew  him  to  a  full  knowledge  of  the 
truth.  Only  a  part  of  that  truth  he  knew  even  then,  when 
he  lay  in  the  officers'  ward  of  the  Alexandria  hospital :  it  is 
our  privilege  to  know  it  all  and  to  explain  it,  so  far  as  ex- 
planation can  be  given,  in  a  few  words. 

Carlton  Brand  had  been  gifted,  and  cursed,  from  childhood, 
with  an  intense  and  imaginative  temperament,  never  quito 


508  THE      CO  \V  A  K  D . 

regulated  or  even  analyzefl.  His  sonse  of  honor  had  ))Con 
painfully  delicate — his  love  of  approbation  so  strong  as  to  be 
little  less  than  a  disease.  Some  mishap  of  his  weak,  hysteri- 
cal and  short-lived  mother,  no  doubt,  had  given  him  one  ter- 
rible weakness,  entirely  physical,  but  which  he  believed  to  be 
mental — he  hahitually  fainted  at  the  sight  of  blood.  (This 
fact  will  explain,  parenthetically,  why  he  fell  senseless  and 
apparently  dead  at  that  period  in  the  encounter  with  Dick 
Compton  when  the  blood  gushed  over  the  face  of  the  latter 
from  his  blow ;  and  why  after  each  of  the  excitements  of  the 
Pool  and  Mount  Willard  he  suffered  in  like  manner,  at  the 
instant  when  his  eyes  met  the  fatal  sign  on  the  faces  of  the 
rescued.)  High  cultivation  of  the  imaginative  faculty,  the 
habit  of  living  too  much  within  himself,  and  a  constitutional 
predisposition  in  that  direction,  had  made  him  painfully 
nervous — a  weakness  which  to  him,  and  eventually  to  others, 
assumed  the  shape  of  cowardice.  Recklessly  brave,  in  fact, 
and  never  troubled  by  that  nervousness  for  one  moment  when 
his  sympathies  were  excited  and  his  really  magnificent  physi- 
cal and  gymnastic  powers  called  into  play, — that  fainting 
shudder  at  the  sight  of  blood  had  been  all  the  while  his 
haunting  demon,  disgracing  him  in  his  own  eyes  and  marring 
a  life  that  would  otherwise  have  been  very  bright  and  pleas- 
ant. One  belief  had  fixed  itself  in  his  mind,  long  before  the 
period  of  this  narration,  and  never  after\Vards  (until  now) 
been  driven  thence — that  if  he  should  ever  be  brought  into 
conflict  among  deadly  iveapons,  this  horror  of  blood  would 
make  him  run  away  like  a  poltroon,  disgracing  himself  for- 
ever and  breaking  the  hearts  of  all  who  loved  him.  This  be- 
lief had  made  his  commission  in  the  Reserves  a  melancholy 
farce ;  this  had  placed  him  in  the  power  of  Dr.  Philip  Pom- 
eroy  and  prevented  that  exposure  and  that  punishment  so 
richly  deserved  ;  this  had  made  his  life,  after  the  breaking  out 
of  the  war,  one  long  struggle  to  avoid  what  he  believed  must 
be  disgraceful  detection.  Once  more,  so  that  the  matter 
which  informs  this  whole  relation  may  be  fairlv  understood, 


T  H  K      CO  ^V  A  n  1) .  509 

i — Carlton  Brand,  merely  a  high-strung,  imaginative,  nervous 
man,  with  tiie  bravery  of  the  okl  Paladins  latent  in  his  heart 
and  bursting  out  occasionally  in  actions  more  trying  than  the 
facing  of  any  battery  that  ever  belched  forth  fire  and  death, — had 
all  the  while  mistaken  that  nervousness  for  cowardice  ; — just 
as  many  a  man  who  has  neither  heart,  feeling  nor  imagina- 
tion, strides  through  the  world  and  stalks  over  the  battle- 
field, wrapped  in  his  mantle  of  ignorance  and  stolidity,  be- 
lieving himself  and  impressing  the  belief  upon  others,  that 
this  is  indomitable  bravery. 

AVhat  Carlton  Brand  had  believed  himself  to  bo  when  un- 
tried— what  Carlton  Brand  had  proved  himself  to  be  when 
hatred  to  Captain  Hector  Coles  and  a  despairing  hope  of  yet 
winning  the  love  of  Margaret  Hayley  moved  him  to  the  trial 
— how  thorough  a  contrast ! — how  exact  an  antagonism  1 
And  how  many  of  us,  perhaps,  going  backward  from  the  glass 
in  which  we  have  more  or  less  closely  beheld  our  natural  faces, 
forget,  if  we  have  ever  truly  read,  "  what  manner  of  men"  we 
are  ! 

And  here  another  explanation  must  follow,  as  we  may  well 
believe  that  it  followed  between  the  three  so  strangely  re- 
united, when  rest  and  repose  had  worn  off  the  first  shock  of 
meeting  and  made  it  safe  for  the  petted  invalid  to  meet  an- 
other pressure  from  those  rose-leaf  lips  that  had  forsaken  all 
their  pride  to  bend  down  and  touch  him  with  a  penitent  bless- 
ing— safe  to  speak  and  to  hear  of  the  many  things  which  the 
parted  alwa3^s  treasure  against  re-union.  That  explanation 
concerns  the  mystery  of  the  passenger  by  the  Cunarder,  the 
American  in  England,  and  the  man  who  under  the  name  of 
Carlton  Brand  perished  from  the  deck  of  the  Emerald  off 
Kingstown  harbor  ?  Had  he  a  double  life  as  well  as  a  double 
nature  ?  Or  had  there  been  some  unaccountable  personation  ? 
The  latter,  of  course,  and  from  causes  and  under  circum- 
stances not  one  whit  surprising  when  the  key  is  once  supplied. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  Carlton  Brand,  very  soon  after 
his  purchase  of  a  ticket  for  Liverpool  by  the  Cunard  steamer 


610  THE      COWARD. 

and  his  indulgino:  that  nervousness  wliich  ho  helievod  to  be 
cowardice  with  a  little  shuddering  horror  at  the  mass  of  coal 
roaring  and  blazing  in  the  furnaces  of  the  government  trans- 
port, early  in  July, — had  a  visiter  at  his  rooms  at  the  Fifth 
Avenue  Hotel — Henry  Thornton,  of  Philadelphia,  a  brother 
lawyer  and  intimate  friend.  It  will  also  be  remembered  that 
the  two  held  a  long  and  confidential  conversation,  very  little 
of  the  purport  of  which  was  then  given.  The  facts,  a  part  of 
them  thus  far  concealed,  were  that  Carlton  Brand,  flying  from 
his  disgrace,  really  intended  to  go  to  Europe  as  he  had  in- 
formed Elsie  ;  that  he  made  no  secret  of  that  disgrace,  to 
Thornton  ;  that  the  latter  informed  him,  incidentally,  of  what 
he  had  heard  of  the  summer  plans  of  Margaret  Hnyley  and 
her  mother,  whom  he  knew  through  his  family ;  that  the 
passage-ticket,  lying  upon  the  table,  came  under  the  notice 
of  Thornton,  inducing  the  information  that  he  was  also  on  his 
way  to  England,  in  chase  of  a  criminal  who  had  absconded 
with  a  large  sum  of  money  belonging  to  one  of  the  Phila- 
delphia banks,  and  whom  he  had  means,  if  once  he  could 
overtake  him,  of  forcing  to  disgorge ;  that  Thornton  half- 
jestingly  proposed,  remembering  their  partial  resemblance, 
that  if  his  friend  had  grown  ashamed  of  his  name,  he  would 
take  that  and  the  ticket  and  pursue  the  criminal  with  less 
chance  of  being  evaded,  his  own  cognomen  being  kept  in  the 
dark ;  that  Brand,  suddenly  taken  with  the  idea  and  struck 
with  the  facility  which  the  use  of  his  name  by  the  other  would 
furnish  for  creating  the  belief  that  he  had  himself  gone  abroad, 
and  thus  concealing  his  identity  while  remaining  at  home, 
adopted  the  suggestion  and  supplied  his  friend  at  once  with 
name  and  ticket,  for  his  travelling  purposes  ;  that  it  was  Henry 
Thornton  and  not  Carlton  Brand  who  ran  that  mad  quest 
about  England,  a  hidden  criminal  always  in  view,  and  fre- 
quenting the  most  doubtful  places  and  the  most  disreputable 
society  to  accomplish  the  object  of  his  search  ;  and  that  it  was 
poor  Thornton  and  not  Carlton  Brand  who  perished  in  the 
Irish  Channel  and  met  that  lowly  grave  in  the  Howth  church- 


THE      COWARD.  511 

yard.  All  tin's  while  tlie  real  owner  of  that  name,  shaving 
away  his  curling  beard,  tinging  his  fair  skin  with  a  very  easily- 
obtained  chemical  preparation,  dyeing  black  his  hair  and 
moustache  and  making  himself  up  as  nearly  as  possible  like 
Thornton,  under  the  assumed  designation  of  Horace  Town- 
send,  suggested  by  the  initials  of  his  "  double,"  was  carrying 
out  that  long  masquerade  which  w^e  have  been  permitted  to 
witness. 

The  peculiarities  which  he  developed  in  that  masquerade, 
should  by  this  time  be  reasonably  well  understood  ;  the  motive? 
w^hich  kept  him  near  the  woman  who  had  once  loved  him  but 
afterwards  cast  him  off  forever,  may  easily  be  guessed  by 
many  a  man,  correspondingly  situated,  who  has  thus  fluttered 
moth-like  around  his  destroying  candle  ;  the  half-maddening 
effect  produced  upon  him  by  the  magnificent  scenery  of  the 
mountains,  the  displays  of  reckless  courage  made  by  Halstead 
Kowan  and  the  marked  admiration  of  Margaret  Hajiey  for 
those  displays,  was  no  matter  for  surprise  when  such  sur- 
roundings for  such  a  temperament  w^ere  considered  ;  the  at- 
tempt to  become  his  own  rival  and  win  the  woman  he  so 
wildly  worshipped  from  himself,  was  not  crazier  than  might 
have  been  expected  from  the  man  who  could  have  exhibited 
all  the  preceding  anomalies ;  and  after  Margaret  had  declared 
her  unalterable  love  but  her  invincible  determination  never  to 
marr}'-  the  man  who  dared  not  fight  for  his  native  land, — the 
feeling  compounded  of  hope  and  despair,  which  sent  him 
down  to  the  Virginia  battle-fields,  first  as.  a  mere  spectator 
under  the  favor  of  his  old  friend  Pleasanton  and  then  as  a 
mad  Berserk  running  a  course  of  w^arlike  fury  wiiich  made 
even  gray-bearded  veterans  shudder, — this  need  astonish  no 
one  who  has  seen  how  human  character  changes  and  devel- 
ops its  true  components  in  the  crucible  of  love,  shame  and 
sorrow  ! 

Be  sure  that  Margaret  Hayley,  too,  in  that  day  of  the 
clearing  away  of  mists  and  mysteries,  made  one  explanation 
— not  to  the  ears  of  Robert  Brand,  but  to  those  of  Carlton 


512  THE      COWAKD. 

alone.  An  explanation  that  was  really  a  confession,  as  it 
told  him  of  the  means  through  which  the  property  held  by 
her  family  (oh,  how  the  magnificent  face  alternately  flushed 
and  paled  when  opening  this  sore  wound  of  her  prid^  !)  had 
been  acquired  many  years  before.  But  be  sure  that  all  this 
was  made  a  recommendation  rather  than  a  shame  in  the  eyes 
of  Carlton  Brand,  when  he  knew  that  from  the  day  of  his 
own  dismissal  her  knowledge  of  that  family  stain  had  been 
used  to  keep  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley  quiet  and  subservient,  to 
hold  Captain  Hector  Coles  at  a  safe  distance,  and  to  enforce 
what  she  had  truly  intended  if  he  should  never  honorably 
beckon  her  again  to  his  bridal  bed — a  life  of  loneliness  for  bis 
sake  ! 

Something  that  occurred  a  month  later — in  October,  when 
nature  had  put  on  those  gorgeous  but  melancholy  robes  of 
gold  and  purple  with  which  in  America  she  wraps  herself 
when  Proserpine  is  going  away  from  Ceres  to  the  darkness 
and  desolation  of  winter. 

One  day  during  that  month  a  close  carriage  drove  down 
the  lane  leading  from  the  Darby  road  past  the  house  of  Dr. 
Pomeroy.  It  was  drawn  by  a  magnificent  pair  of  horses,  but 
they  were  driven  much  more  slowly  than  we  have  once  seen 
them  pursuing  the  same  course.  A  single  figure  was  seated 
in  it,  with  face  at  the  window,  when  it  drew  up  at  the 
doctor's  gate  ;  and  out  of  it  stepped  Nathan  Bladesden,  the 
Quaker  merchant. 

The  face  was  calm,  as  beseemed  his  sect,  but  very  stern. 
A  little  changed,  perhaps,  since  the  early  summer,  with  a 
shadow  more  of  white  dashed  into  the  trim  side-whiskers  and 
one  or  two  deeper  lines  upon  the  brow  and  at  the  corners  of 
the  mouth.  A  step,  as  he  said  a  word  to  the  driver  and 
entered  the  gate,  which  comported  with  the  stern  gravity  of 
the  face  and  the  slow  rate  at  which  he  had  been  driven. 
Something  in  the  whole  appearance  indicating  that  he  had 
come  upon  a  painful  duty,  but  one  that  he  would  do  if  half  the 
powers  of  both  worlds  should  combine  to  prevent  him. 


THE      COWARD.  51?> 

lie  saw  no  one  as  he  approached  the  piazza  and  the  closed 
front  door;  but  as  he  was  about  to  ring,  a  female  servant 
came  out,  closed  the  door  again  behind  her  and  stopped  as  if 
surprised  at  seeing  him. 

"Is  Doctor  Philip  Pomeroy  at  home  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer,  after  one  instant  of  hesitation, — 
*'yes,  but—" 

"  That  was  all  I  asked  thee,  woman  I"  answered  the  Quaker^ 
sternly.  "  I  came  to  see  him  and  I  must  do  so.  Show  mo 
to  him  at  once." 

The  girl  hesitated  again,  looked  twice  at  him  and  once  at 
the  one  open  window  of  the  parlor,  then  obeyed  the  behest, 
opened  the  front  door,  pointed  to  that  leading  into  the  parlor 
from  the  hall,  and  said  : 

"  He  is  there,  Mr.  Bladesden.  If  3^ou  must  see  him,  you 
had  better  knock,  for  he  may  not  like  to  be  disturbed." 

She  went  out  at  once,  leaving  the  front  door  half  open,  and 
glancing  back,  as  she  passed  it,  at  the  tall,  powerful  man  with 
the  gray  hair  and  side-whiskers,  just  applying  his  knuckles  to 
the  panel.  There  was  something  strange  and  even  startled 
iu  her  look,  but  she  said  no  more,  left  him  so  and  went  on 
upon  her  errand. 

The  Quaker  knocked  twice  or  three  times  before  there  was 
any  answer  from  within.  Nor  was  the  door  opened  even 
then,  but  the  voice  of  the  doctor  said  :  "  Come  in  !"  and  he 
entered.  Doctor  Philip  Pomeroy  sat  alone  in  the  room,  in  a 
large  chair,  leaning  far  back,  his  arms  folded  tightly  on  his 
breast  and  his  head  so  thrown  forward  that  he  looked  up 
from  beneath  bent  brows.  He  evidently  saw  his  visitor  and 
recognized  him,  and  yet  he  did  not  rise  or  change  his  position. 
And  quite  a  moment  elapsed  before  he  said,  in  a  voice  fright- 
fully hoarse  : 

"  What  do  you  want  here,  Nathan  Bladesden  ?" 

"  I  have  business  with  thee.  Doctor  Philip,"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  1  do  not  choose  to  do  business  to-day,  with  any  one, 
nor  with  you  as  long  as  I  live  1"  said  the  same  hoarse  voice. 
32 


514  THE      COWARD. 

"  And  I  choose  that  thee  aJiall  do  business  to-day  and 
with  wi'p/"  was  the  second  reply,  still  equable  in  tone  but 
still  terribly  earnest. 

Doctor  Philip  Pomeroy  unfolded  his  arms  and  rose  slowly 
from  his  chair.  The  Quaker,  as  he  did  so  and  was  thus 
thrown  into  a  better  light,  saw  that  his  face  was  hag- 
gard, that  his  sharp,  scintillant  eyes  were  wild,  and  that  he 
looked  years  older  than  when  he  had  beheld  him  last,  four 
months  before.  Standing,  and  with  one  hand  on  the  chair 
as  if  he  needed  support,  he  said  : 

"  Xathan  Bladesden,  I  told  you,  the  last  time  that  you 
visited  this  house,  never  to  come  near  it  again,  and  I  thought 
that  you  knew  me  too  well  to  intrude  again  uninvited." 

"It  is  because  I  know  thee  very  well  indeed,  that  I  have 
intruded,  as  thee  calls  it  I"  answered  the  Quaker,  with  what 
would  have  been  a  sneer  on  another  face  and  from  other  lips. 
"  I  remember  the  last  time  I  came  here.  Doctor  Philip,  quite 
as  well  as  thee  does,  and  I  promised  thee  some  things  then 
that  I  am  quite  as  likely  to  fulfil  as  thee  is  to  carry  out  any 
of  thy  threats.  Besides,  thee  may  be  sure  that  I  have  busi- 
ness, or  I  should  not  have  come,  for  thy  company  is  not  so 
attractive  as  that  men  of  good  character  seek  it  of  their  own 
will  !" 

The  Quaker  had  no  doubt  expected  that  by  that  time  be 
would  break  out  into  rough  violence,  as  before  ;  but  he  had 
misjudged.  From  some  cause  unknown  he  did  not,  though 
the  wild  eyes  grew  more  than  scintillant — they  glared  like 
those  of  a  wild  beast  at  once  in  pain  and  at  bay.  And  he 
made  no  answer  except  a  "  Humph  I"  that  seemed  to  be 
uttered  between  closed  lips — half  an  expression  of  contempt 
and  half  a  groan. 

Kathan  Bladesden,  intent  upon  his  '*  business,"  went  on. 

"I  will  not  trouble  thee  long.  Dr.  Philip,  but  thee  had 
better  pay  attention  to  what  I  say,  for  I  am  very  much  in 
earnest  and  not  to  be  trifled  with,  to-day,  as  thee  will  discover. 
If  thee  remembers,  I  came  here  the  last  time  to  rescue  Eleanor 
Hill  from  thv  villainous  hands — " 


THE      COWARD.  515 

*'  Eleanor  Hill  I"  This  was  not  an  exclamation  of  surprise, 
but  a  veritable  groaning-out  of  the  name. 

^' Yes,  Eleanor  Hill,"  pursued  Bladesden, — "after  thee  had 
broken  off  my  marriage  with  her  by  poisoning  my  mind 
against  the  poor  girl  thee  had  ruined  in  body  and  soul  and 
I  believe  robbed  in  fortune.  The  morning  of  that  day  I  had 
been,  weak,  and  driven  away  by  thee  ;  that  afternoon  I  had 
been  moved  to  do  my  duty  and  to  take  her  away  from  the 
hands  of  a  seducer  and  a  scoundrel— to  shelter  the  lamb  from 
the  wolf,  though  it  was  torn  and  bleeding— to  make  her  my 
sister  if  I  could  not  make  her  my  wife." 

*'Is  that  all— all?  If  not,  go  on  I"  groaned  out  the  hoarse 
voice  through  the  set  teeth. 

"  No,  there  is  somewhat  more,  Dr.  Philip— and  that  of  the 
most  consequence,"  the  Quaker  continued.  "When  I  came, 
the  poor  girl  was  gone — gone  from  thee  as  well  as  from  me. 
Then  I  heard  that  she  had  gone  among  the  soldiers  of  the 
army,  doing  the  work  of  the  Master  and  healing  the  sick. 
She  was  away  from  thee  and  doing  the  duty  of  merciful  wo- 
man, and  I  was  content  to  wait  until  she  had  finished.  But 
to-day  I  learned  that  yesterday  she  came  back  again." 

"  Oh,  my  God  !_he-will  kill  me  !"  groaned  the  answering 
voice,  deeper  and  more  hoarse  than  ever.  But  the  Quaker 
went  mercilessly  on. 

"  No,  I  think  that  I  shall  not  have  need  !"  he  said.  "Thee 
is  cowardly  as  well  as  base,  and  thee  will  obey  and  save  thy 
life.  I  heard,  I  say,  that  she  had  come  back  to  this  house  of 
pollution,  and  I  have  come  to  take  her  away.  Give  her  up 
to  mc,  at  once,  that  I  may  place  her  where  thee  can  never 
harm  her  and  never  even  see  her  more,  and  that  is  all  I  ask 
of  tliee  :  refuse  me  or  try  to  prevent  my  removing  her,  and  I 
will  takelhee  by  the  throat,  here,  now,  with  these  hands  that 
thee  sees  are  strong  enough  to  do  the  duty  of  the  hangman— 
and  strangle  thee  to  death  1" 

There  was  fearful  intensity,  very  near  approaching  momen- 
tary madness,  in  the  voice    and  whole   manner  of  Nathan 


516  THE      COWARD. 

Bladesden,  before  lie  liad  concluded  that  starllin;?  speech;  hnt 
if  he  could  have  looked  keenly  enough  he  might  have  seen  on 
the  face  of  the  doctor  something  more  terrible  than  any  word 
he  had  uttered  or  any  gesture  he  could  make.  His  eyes 
rolled  wildly  with  a  glare  that  was  only  one  remove  from 
manlacy;  his  whole  countenance  was  so  fearfully  contorted 
that  he  might  have  seemed  in  the  last  agony  ;  and  his  frame 
shook  to  such  a  degree  that  the  very  chair  he  held  jarred  and 
shivered  on  the  floor  with  the  muscular  action. 

"God  of  heaven,  Nathan  Bladesden  !"  he  said,  the  hoarse- 
ness of  his  voice  changed  into  a  wild  cry.  "Are  you  mad,  or 
am  /?  You  know  that  Eleanor  Hill  came  back  here  yester- 
day, and  you  have  come  to  take  her  away  from  me  to-day  ?" 

"  I  have  come  for  that  purpose,  and  I  will  do  it,  Doctor 
Philip,"  replied  the  Quaker.  "  Thee  has  my  warning,  and 
thee  had  better  heed  it.  Let  me  see  her  at  once,  and  then  if 
she  does  not  herself  ask  to  be  left  with  thee  and  the  disgrace 
of  thy  house,  thee  shall  see  her  no  more,  if  I  can  prevent  it, 
until  the  judgment !" 

For  one  moment,  then,  without  another  word.  Dr.  Philip 
Pomeroy  looked  at  the  speaker  steadily  as  his  own  terrible 
situation  would  permit.  Then  he  seemed  to  have  arrived  at 
some  solution  of  a  great  mystery,  or  to  have  sprung  to  a 
desperate  resolution,  for  he  sprang  forward,  grasped  the 
Quaker  so  suddenly  that  the  latter  for  the  moment  started  in 
the  expectation  of  personal  violence,  dragged  him  to  the  door 
separating  the  parlor  from  a  smaller  one  at  the  rear,  and 
dashed  it  open,  with  the  words  : 

"  There  is  Eleanor  Hill !  Ask  her  if  she  will  go  with  you 
or  remain  with  me  /" 

The  room  was  partially  shaded  by  heavy  curtains ;  and 
Nathan  Bladesden,  stepping  hastily  therein,  did  not  at  first 
see  what  it  contained.  But  when  he  did  so,  as  he  did  the  in- 
stant after,  no  wonder  that  even  his  stern,  strong  nature  was 
not  quite  proof  against  the  shock,  and  that  he  recoiled  and 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  affright.    For  Eleanor  Hill  was  there 


THE      COWARD.  517 

indeed,  but  scarcely  within  the  reach  of  human  wish  or  ques- 
tion— coffined  for  the  grave,  the  glossy  brown  hair  smoothed 
away  from  a  forehead  on  which  rested  neither  the  farrow  of 
pain  nor  the  mark  of  shame,  the  sad  eyes  closed  in  that  lonj^ 
peaceful  night  which  knows  no  waking  from  sleep  until  the 
resurrection  morning,  the  thin  hands  folded  Madonna-like 
upon  the  breast,  and  one  lingering  flush  of  the  hectic  rose  of 
consumption  in  the  centre  of  either  pale  cheek,  to  restore  all 
her  childish  beauty  and  carry  the  flower-symbol  of  human 
love  into  the  very  domain  of  death. 

"  That  is  Eleanor  Hill — why  do  you  not  ask  her  the  ques- 
tion ?"  Oh,  what  agony  there  was  in  that  poor  attempt  at  a 
taunt  I 

"  Xo,  thee  has  made  her  what  she  is — thee  may  keep  her, 
now  !" 

The  Quaker's  words  were  a  far  bitterer  taunt  than  that 
which  had  fallen  from  the  lips  of  the  doctor.  Then  he  seemed 
to  soften,  went  up  to  the  coffin,  looked  steadily  on  the  dead 
face  for  a  moment,  stooped  and  pressed  his  lips  on  the  cold, 
calm  brow,  and  said,  with  a  strange  echo  of  what  Carlton 
Brand  had  uttered  in  the  hospital  but  a  few  weeks  before  : 

"They  have  such  people  as  thee  in  heaven,  Eleanor!  Fare- 
well !" 

He  turned  away  and  seemed  about  to  leave  the  room  and 
the  house,  but  the  hand  of  Dr.  Philip  Pomeroy  was  again 
upon  his  arm,  grasping  it  and  holding  him  while  the  frame 
shivered  with  uncontrollable  emotion  and  the  broken  voice 
groaned  out : 

''Xathan  Bladesden,  you  hate  me,  and  perhaps  you  have 
cause.  You  are  a  cold,  stern  man,  with  no  mercy,  and  my 
tortures  must  be  pleasure  to  you.  Enjoy  them  all !  And  if 
any  man  ever  doubts  the  existence  of  hell  in  your  presence, 
tell  him  that  you  have  seen  it  with  your  own  eyes  in  the 
house  of  Philip  Pomeroy,  when  the  only  woman  he  ever  loved 
in  the  world  lay  dead  before  him,  murdered  by  his  own  hand, 
and  a  devil  stood  by,  taunting  him  with  his  guilt !" 


518  THE      COVVAKD. 

"  I  will  taunt  thee  no  more,  Doctor  Philip  I"  fell  slowly 
from  the  Quaker's  lips.  "  I  hate  thee  no  longer.  I  pity 
thee.  Thy  Maker  is  dealing  with  thee  now,  and  thy  punish- 
ment is  enough  !" 

He  turned  away,  then,  and  left  the  suffering  man  still  within 
the  room  beside  the  dead.  Once  as  he  passed  into  the  hall  he 
looked  back  and  saw  through  the  still  open  door  a  dark  form 
fall  forward  with  a  groan,  the  head  against  the  coffin  and  the 
arms  clasping  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  living  thing. 

There  are  two  endings  to  the  story  of  "  Faust" — that  mar- 
vellous..wierd  history  of  human  love  and  demoniac  tempta- 
tion which  alike  in  drama  and  opera  enraptures  the  world, 
and  once  before  alluded  to  in  this  narration.  In  the  older 
and  coarser  version,  when  the  ruin  is  full  accomplished  and 
the  hour  of  penalty  full  ripe,  Marguerite  is  seen  ascending 
heavenward,  while  Mephistopheles  laughs  hoarsely  and 
points  downward  to  the  lower  pit,  whence  arise  blue  flames 
and  horrible  discords,  and  into  which  the  doomed  Faust  is 
seen  to  be  dragged  at  the  last  moment  by  the  hands  of  the 
swarming  and  gibbering  monsters.  In  the  other  and  yet 
more  terrible  version,  Maguerite  is  seen  ascending,  and  the 
laugh  of  the  demon  is  heard,  but  it  is  only  a  faint,  fading, 
mocking  laugh,  as  even  he  flies  away  and  leaves  the  man  ac- 
cursed kneeling  in  hopeless  agony  over  the  dead  form  from 
which  the  pure  spirit  has  just  gone  upward — condemned,  not 
to  the  pit  and  the  flame,  but  to  that  worse  hell  of  living  alone 
and  without  hope,  racked  by  love  that  has  come  in  its  full 
force  when  too  late,  and  by  a  remorse  that  will  worse  clutch 
at  his  heart-strings  than  all  the  fiends  of  perdition  could  do  at 
the  poor  body  which  coffers  his  soul  of  torment.  Who  does 
not  know  how  much  the  more  dreadful  is  that  second  doom  ? 
Who  does  not — let  him  never  tempt  God  and  fate  by  making 
the  rash  experiment ! 

Xathan  Bladesden^was  right — even  for  such  sins  as  those 
Doctor  Philip  Pomeroy  had  committed,  the  reckoning  was 
fearful ! 


THE      COWARD. 


519 


Poor  Eleanor  Hill  had  been  right,  too,  when  she  said : 
-  Leave  him  to  me  !  *  *  *  I  will  so  punish  him  as  no 
man  was  ever  punished  I" 

Shall  there  not  be  one  glimmer  more  of  sunshine  after  the 
dark  night  and  the  storm  ?  Thank  heaven,  yes  !-in  a  far-off 
glance  at  fortunes  left  long  in  abeyance  but  not  forgotten. 

Lying  on  the  sofa  at  Mrs.  Burton  Hayley's,  one  evenmg 
when  the  first  fires  of  winter  had  not  long  been  lighted,-still 
taking  the  privilege  of  the  invalid  though  no  longer  one,  and 
making  a  pillow  of  the  lap  of  Margaret  Hayley,  her  damty 
white  fingers  plaving  with  his  clustering  golden  blonde  hair 
as  they  had  erewhile  done  among  the  summer  rose-leaves,— 
a  quick,  warm,  happy  kiss  stolen  now  and  again  when  the 
di-aified  lady  of  the  mansion  was  too  busy  with  the  de- 
vo'utly-religious  work  that  she  was  reading,  to  be  horrified 
by  such  immoral  practices,-lying  thus,  and  the  two  talking 
of  dear  little  Elsie's  coming  happiness  and  their  own  which 
was  not  to  be  much  longer  deferred  ;  of  the  restored  pride  and 
renovated  health  of  Robert  Brand— quite  as  dear  to  Margaret, 
since  that  day  in  the  garden,  as  to  the  son  and  daughter  of  his 
own  blood  ;  of  the  delirious  joy  and  dreadfully  broad  Scotch 
of  old  Elspeth  Graeme  since  the  return  of  her  "  bonny  bairn  ;" 
of  poor  Eleanor  Hill  and  Captain  Hector  Coles,  dead  so  dif- 
ferently on  the  fatal  Virginian  soil ;  of  these  and  others,  and 
of  all  the  events  which  had  been  so  strangely  crowded  within 
the  compass  of  little  more  than  half  a  year,-lying  thus  and 
talking  thus,  we  say,  Carlton  Brand  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
little  fmgment  clipped  from  a  newspaper,  and  said  : 

''  By  the  way,  Margaret,  here  is  something  that  I  found  in 

one  of  the  Baltimore  papers   yesterday.     It  concerns  some 

friends  of  ours,  whom  we  may  never  meet  again,  but  whom 

neither  of  us,  I  think,  will  ever  quite  forget.     Read  it." 

Margaret  Haylev  took  the  slip  and  read,  what  writer  and 

reader'may  be  pardoned  for  looking  over  her  fair  rounded 

shoulder  and  perusing  at  the  same  moment— this  satisfactory 

and  significant  item : 


520  THE      C  O  \V  A  K  D. 

MARRIED.  Rowan— VANDBRLY5.— On  Wednesday  the  9th  inst., 
by  Rev.  Dr.  Rushmore,  Major  Halstead  Rowan,  of  the  Sixth  Illi- 
nois cavalry,  to  Clara,  daughter  of  the  late  Clayton  Vauderlyu, 
Esq.,  and  Mrs.  Isabella  Vanderlyn,  of  Calvert  St. 

"  She  was  a  sweet  girl,  and  be  was  one  of  nature's  gentle- 
men," said  Margaret.  "  I  saw  enough  to  know  how  dearlj 
they  were  in  love  with  each  other  before  they  left  the  moun- 
tains ;  and  I  am  glad  to  know  that  they  have  had  their  will, 
in  spite  of" — and  here  she  lowered  her  voice,  so  that  Mrs. 
Burton  Ilayle}^  could  not  possibly  hear  her — "  a  proud,  med- 
dling mother  and  a  brother  who  should  have  been  sent  back 
to  school  until  he  learned  manners  1" 

"  Oh,  Rowan  told  me  that  he  was  going  into  the  army,  be- 
fore he  left  the  Crawford,"  answered  the  happy  lounger. 
"You  see  he  has  done  so  and  become  a  Major,  and  that 
makes  him  gentleman  enough  even  for  the  Vanderlyns. 
George  ! — what  a  dashing  ofiScer  he  must  make  !  Some  day, 
when  I  go  back  to  the  army — " 

"  When  /  let  you  go  back,  mad  fellow  !" 

"  Some  day  I  want  to  ride  a  charge  with  him,  side  by  side. 
He  was  the  boldest  rider  and  the  most  daring  man  I  ever 
knew." 

"  The  bravest  that  lever  knew,  except  one  !^'  said  Margaret 
Hayley,  stooping  down  her  proud  neck  and  for  some  unex- 
plainable  reason  stopping  for  an  instant  in  the  middle  of  her 
speech.  "And  he  had  even  the  advantage  of  that  one  in  a 
very  important  respect." 

"And  what  was  that,  I  should  like  to  be  informed,  my  Em- 
press 1" 

"'RQknewitP' 


THE  END. 


T.  B.  PETERmjJROTIimjimLICATim 

THIS  CATALOG UE  CONTAINS  AND 

describes  the  31ast  Popular  and  Best  Selling  Books  in  the  Worli 

rhe  Books  will  also  be  found  to  be  the  Best  and  Latest  Publications  bf 

the  most  Popular  and  Celebrated  Writers  in  the  World.   They  are 

also  the  most  Readable  and  Entertaining  Books  published. 

•mltable  for  tlic    Parlor,  lilbx-ary,  Slttliig-Rooni,  Rallroaa 

Camp,  Steamboat,  Army,  or  Soldiers'  Readiing. 

PUBLISHED     AND     FOR     SALE     BY 

T.  B.  PETERSON    &   BROTHERS, 

306  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 

Booksellers  and  all  others  will  be  Supplied  at  very  Low  Rates, 

Copies  of  any  of  Petersons'  Publications,  or  any  other  work  or  works 

Advertised,  Published,  or  Noticed  by  any  one  at  all,  in  any  place, 

will  be  sent  by  us,  Free  of  Postage,  on  receipt  of  Price. 

TERMS:  To  those  with  whom  we  have  no  monlhly  account,  Cash  with  Order. 

MRS.  EMMA  13.  ii.  N.  SOUTH^VORTH'S  WORKS. 


Til©  Bridal  Eve.  Complete  in  one 
volume,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.25;  or 
in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50, 

Tlie  Fatal  Marriage.  Complete 
in  one  volume,  paper  cover.  Price 
$1.25  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Love's  Lalior  Won.  One  vol., 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.25  ;  or  in  one 
vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Til©  Gipsy'H  Proplieey.  Com- 
plete in  one  vol.,  paper  cover.  Price 
$1.25;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Vlvla.  Tlie  Secret  of  Po^ver, 
One  vol.,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.25; 
or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

India.  Tlie  Pearl  of  Pearl 
River.   Price  $1.25  ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

Mottier-ln-Law.  One  vol.,  paper 
cover.    Price  $1.25  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.60. 

Tlie  Two  Sisters.  One  vol.,  paper 
cover.     Price  $1.25  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

Tlie  Three  Beauties.  One  vol., pa- 
yer cover.   Price  $1.25  ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

Til©  Wife's  Victory.  One  vol.,  pa- 
per cover.  Price  $1.25 ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

Tlie  liost  Heiress.  One  vol.,  paper 
cover.     Price  $1.25  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

Til©  Deserted  Wife.  Price  $1.25 
la  paper;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Ht«lcoryHall.  ByMrs.Southworth. 
frico  50  cents. 


Tlie  Liady  of  tlie  Isle.  Complota 
in  one  vol.,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.25  • 
or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

Tlie  Missing  Bride.  One  vol- 
ume,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.25  ;  or  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Retribution:  A  Tale  of  Pas- 
sion. One  vol.,  paper  cover.  Prio« 
$l.i»  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Haunted  Homestead. 
Price  $1.25;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $]  .50. 

The  Curse  of  Clifton.  Prica 
$1.25  in  paper  ;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.50_ 

The  Discarded  Daughter^ 
Price  $1.25  in  paper  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Jealous  Husband.  One  vol., 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.25;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Belle  of  Washington.  On© 
vol.,  paper.  Price  $1.25  ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Initials.  A  Iiove  Story, 
One  vol.     Price  $1.25 ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

Kate  Aylesford.  One  vol.,  paper 
cover.     Price  $1.25 ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Dead  Secret.  One  vol.,  p*. 
per  cover,   Price$1.25  ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Woman  in  Black.  Pric© 
$1.25  in  paper  ;  or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 

Family  Pride.  Price  $1.25  in  pa- 
per ;  or  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Broken  Engagenient« 
By  Mrs.  Southworth.    Price  25  cent© 


B    T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


MRS.  ANN   S.  STEPHENS'   NEAV   WORKS. 


Tlte  Wife**  Secret.  One  rolume, 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.25;  or  iu  one 
Tolume,  clotn,  for  $1.50. 

Tlie  Rejected  AVIfe.  OneTolume, 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.25;  or  in  one 
volume,  cloth,  for  1.50. 

FasKlon  and  Famine.  One  rol- 
ume, paper  cover.  Price  $1.25 ;  or  in 
one  Tol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 


The  Heiress.  One  volnm«,  pap«r 
cover.  Puce  $1.25;  or  in  on«  vol., 
cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Old  Homestead.  One  rol- 
ume, pap«>r  cover.     Price  $1.25  ;  or  in 

one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Mary     I>er-v»-ent.       One    Tclum«, 
paper  cover.     Price  $1.25;  or  in  one 
TMlume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 


CAROLINE  liEE  HENTZ'S  WORKS. 


Planter's      Nortliern      Bride. 

One  volume,  paper  cover.  Price  $1.25  ; 

or  in  cloth,  $1.50. 
Linda.     The   Young  Pilot  of 

the  Belle  Creole.     Price  $1.25  iu 

paper;  or  $1.50  in  cloth. 
Robert  Graham.     The  Sequel  to, 

and  Continuation  of  Linda.  Price  $1.25 

in  paper  ;  or  $1.50  in  cloth. 
The  Lost   Daughter.    One  vol., 

paper  cover.     Price  $1.25;   or  bound 

in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Courtship  and  Marriage.     One 

rol.,  paper  cover.      Price  $1.25  ;    or  iu 

one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Rena;     or,    The    Sno-w    Bird. 

Oue  vol.,  paper  cover.       Price  $1.25; 

or  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Marcus  "Warland.      One  volume, 

paper  cover.      Price  $1.25  ;   or  bound 

in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 


Liove  after  Marriage.  One  vol., 
paper  cover.  Price  $i  2.5  ;  or  in  on* 
volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Planter's  Daughter.    One 

vol.,  paper  cover.      Price  $1.25 ;  or  in 

one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.6C. 
Eoline;     or,    Magnolia    Vale. 

Oue  vol.,  pape^  cover.       Price  $1.25  • 

or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $''.60. 
The    Banished    Son.      One  vol., 

paper  cover.      Price  $1.25  ;  or  in  one 

volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Helen    and    Arthur.     One    vol- 
ume, paper  cover.      Price  $1.25  ;  or  in 

oue  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Ernest    lilnwood.      One  volume, 

paper  cover.      Price  $1.25  ;    or  In  oue 

volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Courtship     and     Matrimony. 

One  vol.,  paper  cover.      Price  $1.25; 
or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 


MRS.   HENRY   WOOD'S   BOOKS. 


The     Shado-\T    of   Ashlydyat. 

One  vol.,  paper  cover.  Price  One 
Dollar ;  or  in  oue  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Squire  Trevlyn's  Heir.  One 
vol.,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar  ; 
or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Castle's  Heir.  One  rolume, 
octavo,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dol- 
lar ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Verner's  Pride.  One  vol.,  octavo, 
paper  cover.  Price  $1.00;  or  in  one 
vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

A  liife's  Secret.  Price  Fifty  cents ; 
or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.00. 

The  Lost  Bank  Note.    50  cents. 


The  Channlngs.    Price  73  cents; 

or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The   Mystery.     Price  Fifty  cenu; 

or  bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.00. 
The  Runaway  Match.  One  vol., 

paper  cover.     Price  50  cents. 
The    Earl's    Heirs.     Price    Fifty 

cents  ;  or  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Aurora  Floyd.     Price  50  cents  ;  or 

a  finer  editioa,  in  cloth,  for  $1.2.5. 
Better  For  Worse.     One  vol.,  oe- 

tavo,  paper  cover.     Price  50  cents. 
F'oggy  Niglit  at  Offord.    25  cto. 
William  Allair.    Price  25  cents. 
Lavt'yer's  Secret.    Price  25  cents. 


THE    GREAT    NOVELS    OF    THE   W^AR. 

Shoulder  Straps.  A  novel  of  New  York  and  the  Army  in  1862.  By  Henry 
Morford,  editor  ot  the  "  Jfow  York  Atlas."  It  is  the  book  for  Ladies,  Gentlemen, 
»nd  Soldiers!  Wives  and  Widows,  Fast  Young  Ladies,  Slow  Young  Ladies, 
Married  Men  and  Bachelors,  Young  Ladies  about  to  bo  Married,  and  those  who 
have  no  Matrimonial  Prospects  whatever  I  Stay-at-home  Guards,  Governmeut 
C  fflcials,  Army  Contractors,  Aldermen,  Doctors,  Judges,  Lawyers,  etc.  Pric« 
$1.25  in  paper  ;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Days  of  Shoddy.  A  Novel  of  the  Greit  Rebellion  of  1861.  By  Henry 
Uorioti  author  of  "  Shoulder  Straps  "    Price  $1  25  'n  paper,  <>.  $1  50  in  cIo^Il 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLI0ATI0N8.    S 


CHARLKS    DICKENS'     WORKS. 

ILLUSTRATED   OCTAVO  EDITION. 

David  Copi>erAeld, Cloth,  2.00 


Pickivlolc  Papers, Cloth,  $2.00 

Nicholas  Nicttletoy, Cloth,  200 

Great  Expectations,. ..Cloth,  2.00 
liampligliter's  Story,..Cloth,  2.00 

Oliver   Twist, Cloth,  2.00 

Bleak  House, Cloth,  2.00 

Little   Dorrit, Cloth,  2.00 

Donibey  and   Son, Cloth,  2.00 

Sketclies  toy  "Box,". ...Cloth,  2.00 


Barnatoy  Rudge, Cloth,  2.00 

Martin  CIiuzzleAvit,...Cloth,  2.00 
Old  Curiosity  Sliop,.... Cloth,  2.00 

Cliristmas   Stories, Cloth,  2.00 

Dickens'   New   Stories, 2.00 

A    Tale   of   Two  Cities, 2.00 

American  Notes  and 
Pic-Nic   Papers, Cloth,  2.00 


Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  cloth,  iu  17  volumes $32.00 

"  "        Full  Law  Library  style 42.00 

'•  '*        Half  calf,  sprinkled  edges 48.0C 

"  "        Half  calf,  marbled  edges 50.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  antique  60.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc 60.0C 

PEOPLE'S  DUODECIMO  EDITION. 


PUkwick  Papers, Cloth,  $1.75 

Nicholas  Nickletoy, ...Cloth,  1.75 
Great  Expectations,. ..Cloth,  1.75 
iiampligliter's  Story,.. Cloth,  1.75 

David  Copperfield, Cloth,  1.75 

Oliver  Twist, Cloth,  1.75 

Bleak  House, Cloth,  1.75 

A  Tale    of  Two   Cities, 1.75 

Di«kens'  New  Stories, 1.75 


liittle  Dorrit, Cloth,  1.75 

Domtoey  and   Son, Cloth,  1.75 

Cliristmas  Stories, Cloth,  1.75 

Sketches  toy  "  Box,".... Cloth,  1.75 

Barnatoy  Rudge, Cloth,  1.75 

Martin  Chuzilewlt,... Cloth,  1.75 
Old  Curiosity  Shop,.... Cloth,  1.75 

Dickens'   Short  Stories, 1.50 

Message  froiai  the  Sea, 1.50 


Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  cloth,  in  17  volumes $29.00 

**  "         Full  Law  Library  style 35.00 

**  "        Half  calf,  sprinkled- edges 42.00 

"  "        Halfcalf,  marbled  edges 44.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  antique 60.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc 50.00 

"  "         Full  calf,  antique 60.00 

"  •'        Full  ealf,  gilt  edges,  backs,  etc 60.00 

ILLUSTEATED  DUODECIMO  EDITION. 


Sketches  toy  "  Boz,»»... Cloth,  3.00 

Barnatoy  Rudge, Cloth,  3.00 

Martin  Chuzzlew^it,... Cloth,  3.00 
Old  Curiosity  Shop,. ..Cloth,  S.OO 

Little  Dorrit, Cloth,  3.00 

Domtoey  and  Son, Ooth,  S.OO 


ft*iekwiek  Papers, Cloth,  $3.00 

Talc  of  Two  Cities,.... Cloth,  3.00 

Nicholas   Nickletoy,,... Cloth,  3.00 

David  Copperfield, Cloth,  3.00 

Oliver   Twist, Cloth,  3.00 

Christmas  Stories, Cloth,  3.00 

Bleak  House, Cloth,  3.00 

Each  of  the  above  are  complete  in  two  volumes,  ilhittrated. 

Great  Expectations,. ..Cloth,  1.75  I  Dickens'  Ncav  Stories, 1.50 

I^amplighter's   Story, 1.75  I  Message  Arom  the  Sea, 1.50 

Price  of  »  set,  in  Thirty  volumes,  bound  in  Black  cloth,  gilt  backs $45.00 

"  «'        Full  Law  Library  style 55.00 

"  "        Half  calf,  antique 90.00 

•*  "        Half  calf,  full  gilt  back 90.00 

♦*  "        Full  calf,  antique loO.OO 

•*         «*       Full  calf,  gilt  edges,  baeks  etc „ «....100.W 


4    T.Bj^PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PTTBLIOATiaHS. 


CHARLKS  DICKKIVS'  WORKS. 

CHEAP  EDITION,  PAPER  COVEB. 
Thl»  edition  is  published  complete  in  Twenty-two  large  octaTO  Tolaine9,ln  PWNV 
«jTftf .  as  follows.     Price  Seventy-flye  cents  a  volume. 


PlclcAvlclc  Papers. 
Great  E^xpectatlons. 
A  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 
Nrw  Years'  Stories. 
Barnaby  Rudge. 

Old  Curiosity  Shop. 
Little  Dorrlt. 
Da-rld  Copperfleld. 
Slcetclies   by  «  Boz." 
Dickens'  New  Stories. 
American  Notes. 
Somebody's  Luggage.    25  cts. 

LIBRARY  OCTAVO  EDITION.     IN  SEVEN  VOLUMES. 
This  edition  ia  In  SEVEN  large  octavo  volumes,  with  a  Portrait  on  steel     I 

Charles  Dickens,  and  bound  in  the  following  various  styles. 

Price  of  a  set,  in  Black  Cloth,  in  seven  volumes, $1<  MJ 

"  "  Scarlet  cloth,  extra, , UJO 

"  *'  Law  Library  style, 17.50 

'•  "  Half  calf,  sprinkled  edges, 20.00 

"  ".  Half  calf,  marbled  edges, 21.00 

"  "  Half  calf,  antique, 2A.00 

••  "  Half  calf,  full  gilt  backs,  etc., 2J,.00 

CHARLES    LEVER'S    WORKS. 

Fine  Edition,  bound  separately. 


Oliver  Twist. 
LanipUgliter's  Story« 
Uonibey  and  Son. 
Nicholas  Nickleby* 
Holiday  Stories. 
Martin  Chnszle^vrit. 
Blealc  House. 
Dickens'   Short  Stories. 
Message  from  the  Sea. 
Christmas   Stories. 
Plc-Nlc  Papers. 
Christmas   Carols.     2j  cents. 


Charles  O'Ma'Jey,  cloth, .$2.00 

Harry  Lorrequer,  cloth, 2.00 

.Jack  Hlnton,  cloth, 2.00 

Davenport  Dunn,  cloth, 2.00 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  cloth,.  2.00 


Arthur  O'Leary,  cloth JT.OO 

Con  Cregan,  cloth, 2.00 

Knight  of  G-»vynne,  cloth,     2.00 

Valentine  Vox,  cloth, 2.00 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year,..  .  2.00 


CHARLES  LEVER  S  NOVELS. 

All  neatly  done  up  in  paper  covers. 


Charles  O'Malley,... .Price  7.5  cts. 

Harry    Lorrequer, 75    " 

Horace    Templeton, 75    " 

Tom   Burke  of  Ours, 75    " 

Jack      Hinton,     the 
Guardsman, 75    " 

LIBRARY 


Arthur  O'Leary, 73  etsw 

The  Knight  of  Gwynme,  75  •♦ 

Kate   O'Donoghue, 75  •' 

Con     Cregan,   the    Irish 

Gil  Bias, T3  •• 

Davenport  Dunn, 73  •* 

EDITION. 


THIS  EDITION  is  complete  in  FIVE  large  octavo  volumes,  containing  Charts* 
O'.Malley,  Harry  Lorrequer,  Horace  Templeton.  Tom  Burke  of  Ours,  Arthur  O'Leary, 
Jack  Hinton  the  Gnardi?man,  The  Knight  of  Gwynne,  Kate  O'Donoghue,  etc.,  hand- 
•omely  printed,  and  bound  in  various  styles,  as  follows : 

Price  of  a  set  in  Black  cloth, flO.OO 

"  "        Scarlet  cloth, 11.00 

"  "        Law  Library  sheep 12  50 

**  '•        Half  Calf,  «p'riukled  edges ." '.  14.00 

••  "        Half  Calf,  marbled  edges 15.00 

•*  **        Half  Calf,  antique, 20.0* 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    6 


WIIiKIK  COL.L.INS 
The  Dead  Secret.  One  vblume, 
octavo,  paper  cover.  Price  fifty  cents  ; 
or  bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1 .00  ; 
or  a  fine  12mo.  editijn,  in  one  vol., 
paper  cover,  in  large  type,  for  $1.25, 
or  i«  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.60. 

Tlie  Crossed  Path.  ^   or,  Basil. 

Complete  in  one  volume,  paper  cover. 
Price  $1.25,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth,  for  $1.50. 

The  Stolen  Slaslc.    Price  23  cents. 

COOK 
Petersons'  Tfc\r  Coolt  Book; 
or  Useful  Receipts  for  the  Housewife 
and  the  uninitiated.  Full  of  valuable 
receipts,  all  original  and  never  before 
published,  all  of  vrhich  will  be  found 
to  be  very  valuable  and  of  daily  use. 
One  vol.,  bound.  Price  $1.50. 
fllsa  lieslle's  Nevr  Cookery 
Book  Being  her  last  new  book. 
One  vOiUme,  bound.     Price  $1..50. 


GRKAT  WORKS. 

Hide  and  Seek.    One  vol.,  octaro, 

paper  cover.      Price   fifty   cents  ;    or 

bound  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.00. 
After  Dark.  One  vol.,  octavo,  paper, 

cover.     Price  fifty  cents  ;  or  bound  iu 

one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.00. 
Sights  a-foot ;  or  Travels  Beyond 

Railways.   One  volume,  octavo,  papei 

cover.     Price  50  cents.i 
The  Yellow  Mask.     Price  25  eta 
Sister  Rose.    Price  25  cento. 


BOOKS. 
Widdifleld's  New  Cook  Book} 

or,  Practical  Receipts  for  the  House- 
wife.    Cloth.     Price  $1.50. 

Mrs.  Hale's  New  Cook  Book. 

By  Mrs.  Sarah  .1.  Hale.     One  volume, 
bound.     Price  $1.50. 

Miss  JLieslle's  New  Receipts 
for  Cookins^.  Complete  in  on« 
volume,  bound.    Price  $1.50. 

MRS.    HALiE'S    RECEIPTS. 

Mrs.  Hale's   Receipts   for  the   Million.     Containing  4545    Receipts. 

By  Mrs.  Sarah  J.  Hale.     One  vol.,  800  pages,  strongly  bound.     Price  $1  60. 

I^ADIES    GUIDE    TO    TRUE   POLITENESS,    etc. 


The  Liadies  Gnide  to  Trne 
Politeness  and  Perfect  Man- 
ners. By_Miss  Leslie.  Cloth,  full 
gilt  back, 


The  L.adies  Complete  Gnlde 
to  Needlework  and  Em- 
broidery. 113  Illustrations.  Cloth, 
gilt  back.     Price  $1.50. 


Price  $1.30. 

l.adies  "Work  Tahle  Book.    Plates,  cloth,  crimson  gilt.    Price  $1.25. 
FRANCATEIiLiI'S     FRENCH     COOK. 

Prancatelll's  Celebrated  French  Cook  Book.  The  Modern 
Cook.  A  Practical  Guide  to  the  Culinary  Art,  in  all  its  branches;  comprising, 
in  addition  to  English  Cookery,  the  most  approved  and  recherche  systems  of 
French,  Italian,  and  German  Cookery  ;  adapted  as  well  for  the  largest  establish- 
ments, as  for  the  use  of  private  families.  By  CHARLES  ELME  FRANCA- 
TELLI,  pupil  to  the  celebrated  Careme,  and  late  Maitre-d'HAtel  and  Chief  Cook 
to  her  Majesty,  the  Queen  of  England.  With  Sixty-Two  Illustrations  of  various 
di.shes.  Reprinted  from  the  last  London  Edition,  carefully  revised  and  consider- 
ably enlarged.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume  of  Six  Hundred  pages, 
Btrougly  bound,  and  printed  on  the  finest  paper.    Price  Five  Dollars. 

J,  A.  MAITIiAND'S   GREAT  WORKS. 
The   Three    Consins.     By  J.  A. 


Maitland.      One   vol.,   paper.      Price 

$1 .25  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  "Watchman.    Complete  in  one 

large  vol.,  paper  cover.     Price  $1.25; 

or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Vhe  Wanderer.    Complete  in  one 

volume,   paper  cover.      Price  $1.25 ; 

or  ia  on©  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 


The  Diary  of  an  Old  Doctor. 

One  vol.,  paper  cover.      Price  $1.2f  , 

or  bound  in  cloth  for  $1.50. 
The  l«a>vyer's  Story.      One  Tol- 

ume,   paper  cover.      Price  $1.25 ;   or 

bound  in  cloth  for  $1.50. 
Sartaroe.    A  Tale  of  Norway. 

One  vol.,  paper  cover.      Price  $1.25 

or  in  cloth  for  $1.50. 


MRS.    DANIELS'    GREAT    WORKS, 
larrying  for  Money.    Ons  vol.,  i  The  Poor  Cousin.    Price  ftOoests 
octavo,  paper  cover     Price  fifty  cents ;     k^^^    Walslngham.      Price   & 

©pon«  vol.,  eioth.     Price  $1.00.  |      coats. 


6    T.B.PETERSON  A  BROTHERS'  PTIBLIOATIOirS. 


AI^KXANDER    DUMAS'    WORKS. 


Count    of    Monte -Crlsto.     B7 

Alf^xander  Danias.     Beautlfally  illus- 
trated.    One  volnme,  cloth,  $1.50  ;  or 
ptiper  cover,  for  $1.00. 
Tl»e    Conscript.     One   vol.,  paper 
cove*-.     Price  $1.25.  ;  or  in  one  Tol., 
cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Camille;    or    the    Fnte    of   a 
Coque  1 1  e.  Only  correct  Translation 
from  the  Original  French.      Ono  vol- 
nme,  paper,  price  $1.25  ;  cloth,  $1.60. 
Tlie  Tliree  Onardsmen.    Price 
75  cents,  in  paper  cover,  or  &  finer 
edition  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
T-»venty  Years  After.    A  Sequel 
to  the  "  Three  Guard^^men."     Price  75 
cents,  in  paper  cover,  or  a  finer  edition, 
lu  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Bragelonne;  tlxe  Sonof  Atliost 
being  the  continuation    of    "Twenty 
Years  After."  "-^'rice  75  cents,  in  paper, 
or  a  finer  edition,  in  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Tlie    Iron  Mask.     Beinp  the  con- 
tinuation of  the  "Three  Guardsmen." 
Two   vols.,    paper    cover.     Price    One 
Dollar  ;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth.  $1.50. 
Louise     Lia    Valliere  ,     or.    The 
Second  Series   and    end  of  the  "  Iron 
Mask."    Two   volumes,   paper  cover. 
Price  $1 .00,  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  $1.60. 
Tlie  Memoirs  of  a  Physician, 
Beautifully    Illustrated.      Two    vols., 
paper  cover.     Price   One    Dollar ;   or 
Lound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Tlie   Q,u.een'8   Necklace.     A  Se- 
quel to  the  "  Memoirs  of  »  Physician." 
Two  vols.,  paper  cover.     Price  $1.00  ; 
or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Six   Tears   Liater  <   or.  Taking  of 
the  Bastile.     A  Continuation  of  "  The 
Queen's  Necklace."    Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.     Price  One   Dollar ;  or  in  one 
vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Countess    of    Cliarny;   or.   The 
Fall  of  the  French  Monarchy.    Sequel 
to  Six  Years  Later.     Two  vols.,  paper 
cover.     Price  One  Dollar;  or  in  one 
Tolame,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 


Andree  de  Ta-rcrney.  A  Seqvtl 
to  and  continuation  of  the  CoantcM  of 
Chaniy.  Two  vjlnmci,  paper.  Pri«« 
$1.00;  or  in  one  toL,  cloth,  ft,r  f  1.50. 

Tlie  Clievaller.  A  Sequel  to,  &n4 
final  end  of  "  Andree  De  Tavemey." 
One  vol.    Price  75  cents. 

Tlie  Adventures  of  a  Mar- 
qnis.  Two  ToU.,  paper  corer.  Price 
1.00;  or  in  one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 

Tlie  Forty-Five  Guardsmen. 

Price  75  cents,  or  a  finer  edition  in  on* 

Tolurae,  cloth.     Price  $1.50. 
Tlie  Iron    Hand.     Price  75  cents, 

in  paper  cover,  or  a  finer  edition  ia 

one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Diana  of  3Ieridor.    Two  volumes 

paper  cover.     Price  One  Dollar  ;  or  in 

one  vol.,  cloth,  for  $1.50. 
Fdmoiid  Daiites.    Being  a  Sequel 

to    Dumas'   celebrated    novel    of    the 

"Count  of  Monte-Cristo."  Price  50ct9. 
Annette  ;  or,  The  Lady  of  tli* 

Pearls.    A  Companion  to  "Camille." 

Price  50  cents. 

Tlie  Fallen  An^el.  A  Story  of 
Love  and  Life  In  Paris.  One  volume. 
Pr'ce  50  cents. 

Tne  Man   -tvitli    Five  "Wives. 

Complete  in  one  volume.    Price  50  cts. 

George  ;  or,  Tlie  Planter  of 
tlie  Isle  of  France.  One  vol- 
ume.    Price  Fifty  cents. 

Genevieve;  or.  The  Clievalier  of 
Maison  Kouge.  One  volume.  Illus- 
trated.    Price  50  cents. 

Tlie  Moliicans  of  Paris.  60  cts. 
Sketches  in  France.  60  ceats. 
Isabel  of  Bavaria.  Price  50  cts. 
Felina  de   Chamhnrc  f    or,  The 

Female  Fiend.     Price  50  cents. 
The  Horrors  of  Paris.    60  cents. 
The    TAvln   liieutenants.    One 

vol.    Price  75  cts. 
The  Corsican  Brothers.    36  cts. 


FRANK    E.     SMEDLEY'S     WORKS. 


Ifarry  Coverdale's  Courtship 

and  Marriage.     One  vol.,  paper. 

Price  $1.25;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 
Lorrimer  Liittlegood.  By  author 

of  "  Frank  Fairleisrh."  One  vol.,  paper. 

Price  f  1.25  ;  or  cloth,  $1.50. 
^raiik    Fairlelgh.    One  volume, 

cloth,  $1.60  ;  or  cheap  edition  in  paper 

•erer,  for  7§  cents. 


Iiewis   Arundel.    One  vol.,  cloth. 

Price  $1.50  ;  or  cheap  edition  in  paper 

cover,  for  75  cents. 
Fortunes  and  Misfortunes  of 

Harry    Racket    Scapegrace. 

Cloth.     Price  $1..^0  ;  or  cheap  edition 

in  paper  cover,  for  60  cents. 
Tom    Racquet  j     and     His    Three 

Maidin  Aunts.     Illustrated.    6C  oeats 


JB^-GET    Ur    YOUR    CliUBS    FOR    1864! 

NEW    AND    SPLENDID    PKEMIUMS ! 

PETERSON'S  MAGAZini: 

THE  BEST  AND  CHEAPEST  IN  THE  WORLD ! 

. «  •  •  *  > 

Thli  popular  Monthly  contains  more  for  the  money  than  any  Magazine  in  the  worM, 
m  18G4,  it  will  have  nearly  1000  pages,  25  to  30  steel  plates,  12  colored  patterns,  and  900 
wood  engravings — and  all  this  for  only  TWO  DOLLARS  A  YEAR,  or  a  dollar  less  than 
magazines  of  its  clasH.  Every  ladv  ought  to  take  "Peterson."  In  the  general  advance 
of  prices,  it  is  the  ONLY  MAGAZINE  THAT  HAS  NOT  RAISED  ITS  PRICE*  EITHER 
TO  SINGLE  SUBSCRIBERS  OR  TO  CLUBS ;  and  is,  therefore,  emphatically, 

THE  MAGAZINE  FOR  THE  TIMES! 

The  stories  in  "  Peterson  "  are  conceded  to  be  the  iest  published  anywhere.  Mrs.  Ann 
G.  Stephens,  Ella  Rodman,  Mrs.  Denison,  Frank  Lee  Benedict,  the  author  of  "  Susy  L's 
Diary,"  T.  S.  Arthur,  E.  L.  Chandler  Moulton,  Gabrielle  Lee,  Virginia  F.  Townsend, 
Rosalie  Grey,  Clara  Augusta,  and  the  author  of  "The  Second  Life,"  besides  all  the 
most  popular  female  writers  of  America  are  regular  contributors.  In  addition  to  the 
URual  number  of  shorter  stories,  there  -will  be  given  in  1864,  Four  Original 
Ciopy-riglxtecl  Novelets,  viz: 

iHE  MAID  OF  HONOR— a  Story  of  Queen  Bess, 

By  ANN  S.  STEPHENS. 

THE  LOST  ESTATE— a  Story  of  To-Day, 

By  the  author  of  "The  Second  Life." 

MAUD'S  SUMMER  AT  SARATOGA, 
By  FRANK  LEE  BENEDICT. 

FANNY'S  FLIRTATION, 

By  ELLA  RODMAN, 
In  its  Illustrations  also,  "  Peterson"  is  unrivaled.  The  publisher  challenges  a  compari^ 
BCD  between  its  SUPERB  MEZZOTINTS  AND  OTHER  STEEL  ENGRAVINGS  and 
tijose  in  other  Magazines,  and  one  at  least  is  given  in  every  number. 

COLORED  FA8H10M  PLATES  IN  ADVANCE, 

It  is  the  ONLY  MAGAZINE  whose  Fashion  Plates  can  be  relied  on. 

Each  number  contains  a  Fashion  Plate,  engraved  on  steel,  and  colored — from  Fashions 
trter  than  any  other  Magazine  gives;  also,  a  dozen  or  more  New  Styles,  engraved  on 
Wood;  also,  a'Pattern,  from  which  a  Dress,  Mantilla,  or  Child's  Costume  can  be  cut,  with- 
out the  aid  of  a  mantua-maker — so  that  each  number,  in  this  way,  will  SAVE  A  YEAR'S 
i  UBSCRIPTION.  The  Paris,  London,  Philadelphia  and  New  York  Fashions  are  descri- 
bed, at  length,  each  month.    Patterns  of  Caps,  Bonnets,  Head  Dresses,  <fcc.,  given.    Its 

COLORED  PATTSRIV^S  m  EMROIDERY,  CROCHET,  &C. 

The  Work-Table  Department  of  this  Magazine  IS  WHOLLY  UNRIVALED.  Every 
rmmber  contains  a  dozen  or  more  patterns  in  every  variety  of  Fancy-work;  Crochet, 
Embroidery,  Knitting,  Bead-work,  Shell-work,  Ilair-work,  &c.,  Sec,  &c.  Every  month,  a 
bUPERB  COLORED  PATTERN  FOR  SLIPPER,  PURSE  or  CHAIR  SEAT,  &c.,  is  given 
— each  of  which,  at  a  retail  store,  would  cost  Fifty  Cents. 

«OUR    NEW    COOK-BOOK/' 
The  Original  Household  Receipts  of  "Peterson"  are  quite  famous.    For  1864  our 
"Cook-Book-'  will  be  continued:     EVERY  ONE  OF  THESE    RECEIPTS  H.liS  BEEN 
TESTED,    This  alone  will  be  worth  the  price  of  "Peterson."    Other  Receipts  for  th« 
Toilette,  Sick-room,  etc.,  &c.,  will  be  given. 

NEW  AND  FASHIONABLE  MUSIC  in  every  number.  Also,  Hinta  on  HorUculture, 
Equestrianism,  and  all  matters  interesting  to  Ladies. 

TERMS:— ALWAYS  IN  ADVANCE. 

One  Copy  for  One  year, $2.00  I  Five  Copies  for  One  year,    ....    $7.50 

ihree  Copies  for  One  year,  ...  -  5.00  |  Eight  Copies  for  One  year.  .  -  -  »  10.00 
'  PREMIUMS  FOR  GETTING  UP  CLUBS !— Three,  Five,  or  Eight,  copies,  make 
a  Club.  To  every  person  getting  up  a  club  an  extra  copy  of  the  Magazine  for  1864  will 
L»e  given. 

Address,  postpaid,         CHARLES  J.   PETERSOK", 

No.  306  Chestnut  St.,  Phila. 
Jj^All  Postmasters  constituted  Agents ;  but  any  person  may  get  up  a  club.    Speol- 
tDeos  8«ut  gratuitously,  if  written  for. 

^^ ■  ^r=^ 


(MiP[ST  BOOK  HOUSE  18  IKE  WORLD. 

To  Sutlers!  Pedlars!  Booksellers!  News  Agents!  etc. 

T.    B.    PETERSON    8l    BROTHERS, 

No.  306  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 

*UBLI8H  THE  MOST  SALEABLE  BOOKS  IN  THE  WORLD 

AND  SUPPLY  ALL  BOOKS  AT  VERY  LOW  RATES. 

The  cheapest  place  in  the  world  to  buy  or  send  for  a  stock  of  all 
kinds  of  Books,  suitable  for  all  persons  whatever,  for  Soldiers,  and  for 
the  Arruy,  and  for  all  other  reading,  is  at  the  Bookselling  and  Pub- 
lishing House  of  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia. 

Any  person  wanting  any  books  at  all,  in  any  quantity,  from  a  single 
hook  to  a  dozen,  a  hundred,  thousand,  ten  thousand,  or  larger  quantity 
of  books,  had  better  send  on  their  orders  at  once  to  the  "  CHEAP- 
EST BOOKSELLING  AND  PUBLISHING  HOUSE  IN  THE 
WORLD,"  which  is  at  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  No.  306 
Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia,  who  have  the  largest  stock  in  the  coun- 
try, and  will  supply  them  and  sell  them  cheaper  than  any  other  house 
in  the  world.  We  publish  a  large  variety  of  Military  Novels,  with 
Illustrated  Military  covers,  in  colors,  besides  thousands  of  others,  all 
of  which  are  the  best  selling  and  most  popular  books  in  the  world. 
We  have  just  isgued  a  new  and  complete  Catalogue,  copies  of  which 
we  w'.ll  send  gratuitously  to  all  on  their  sending  for  one. 

Enclose  one,  two,  five,  ten,  twenty,  fifty,  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand 
dollars,  or  more,  to  us  in  a  letter,  or  per  express,  and  write  what  kind 
of  books  you  wish,  and  they  will  be  packed  and  sent  to  you  at  once,  per 
first  express  or  mail,  or  in  any  other  way  you  may  direct,  just  as  well 
assorted,  and  the  same  as  if  you  were  on  the  spot,  with  circulars,  show 
bills,  &c.,  gratis.     All  we  ask  is  to  give  us  a  trial. 

Address  all  orders  for  any  books  you  may  want  at  all,  no  matter  by 
whom  published,  or  how  small  or  how  large  your  order  may  be,  to  the 
Cheaped  Publishing  and  Bookselling  House  in  the  world,  which  is  at 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS, 

No.  306  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 
And  they  will  be  packed  and  sent  to  you  within  an  hour  after  receipt 
«f  the  order,  per  express  or  railroad,  or  in  any  other  way  you  may  direct. 


<3"  Agents,  Sutlers,  and  Pedlars  wanted  everywhere,  to  engage  i?  the 
B/   <  aur  popular  selling  Books,  all  of  which  will  be  sold  at  very  low  r  tea 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
806 


